CLOSE 
RANGE 

V^ 


GIFT   Of 


( 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 


BOOKS  BY  F.  HOPKINSON    SMITH 

PUBLISHED    BY   CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

At  Close  Range 111.,  izmo,  $1.50 

Colonel  Carter's  Christmas     .     .  111.,  lamo,  $1.50 

The  Under  Dog 111.,  121110,  $1.50 

The  Fortunes  of  Oliver  Horn  .  111.,  i2mo,  $1.50 


You're  'it.'     I'll  git  the  trunk  at  Kalamazoo." 


AT 
CLOSE   RANGE 


BY 

F.   HOPKINSON   SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK::::::::::::::::::1905 


- 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


Published,  March,  1905 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND    BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


To  my  Readers: 

On  my  writing-table  lies  a  magnifying-glass  the 
size  of  an  old  watch  crystal,  which  helps  me  to 
understand  the  mechanism  of  many  interesting 
things.  With  it  I  decipher  at  close  range  such 
finger- work  as  the  cutting  of  intaglios,  the  brush- 
marks  on  miniatures,  or  perhaps  the  intricate  fus- 
ings  of  metals  in  the  sword-guard  of  a  Samurai. 

At  the  same  close  range  I  try  to  search  the 
secret  places  of  the  many  minds  and  hearts  wrhich 
in  my  nomadic  life  cross  my  path.  In  these  mag- 
nifyings  and  probings  the  unexpected  is  ofttimes 
revealed :  tenderness  hiding  behind  suspected  cru 
elty  ;  refinement  under  assumed  coarseness ;  the  j  oy 
of  giving  forcing  its  way  through  thick  crusts  of 
pretended  avarice. 

The  results  confirm  my  theory,  that  at  the  bot 
tom  of  every  heart-crucible  choked  with  life's  cin 
ders  there  can  almost  always  be  found  a  drop  of 

gold. 

F.  H.  S. 

150  E.  34th  Street,  New  York. 


371940 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Night  Out 3 

An  Extra  Blanket 39 

A  Medal  of  Honor 67 

The  Rajah  of  Bungpore 93 

The  Soldo  of  the  Castellani   .     .     .     .121 

A  Point  of  Honor .147 

Simple  Folk .     .177 

"Old  Sunshine" 207 

A  Pot  of  Jam 239 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"You  re  'it.'     I'll  get  the  trunk  at  Kalamazoo" 

Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Heads  and  arms  and  legs  made  the  passage  of  the 

aisles  difficult 8 

Some  young  men  .   .   .  and  four  or  Jive  chorus  girls     52 
The  room  became  crowded  with  Sam's  customers      .      70 

At   his  feet   knelt  two  Hindu   merchants  displaying 

their  wares 112 

(Courtesy  of  Collier's  Weekly.) 

Over  the  white  snow  seaward 180 

(Courtesy  of  Collier's  Weekly.) 


A    NIGHT    OUT 


A    NIGHT     OUT 

JL  HOREAU  once  spent  the  whole  livelong  night 
in  the  hush  of  the  wilderness ;  sitting  alone,  listen 
ing  to  its  sounds — the  fall  of  a  nut,  the  hoot  of  a 
distant  owl,  the  ceaseless  song  of  the  frogs. 

This  night  of  mine  was  spent  in  the  open ;  where 
men  came  and  went  and  where  the  rush  of  many 
feet,  and  the  babel  of  countless  voices  could  be 
heard  even  in  its  stillest  watches. 

In  my  wanderings  up  and  down  the  land,  speak 
ing  first  in  one  city  and  then  in  another,  often  with 
long  distances  between,  I  have  had  the  good  fortune 
to  enjoy  many  such  nights.  Some  of  them  are  filled 
with  the  most  delightful  memories  of  my  life. 

The  following  telegram  was  handed  me  as  I  left 
the  stage  of  the  Opera  House  in  Marshall,  Mich., 
some  months  ago: 

3 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Can  you  speak  in  Cleveland  to-morrow  after 
noon  at  2.30?  Important. — Answer." 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  half  past  ten 
o'clock.  Cleveland  was  two  hundred  miles  away,  and 
the  Night  Express  to  Toledo  and  the  East,  due  in 
an  hour,  did  not  stop  at  Marshall. 

I  jumped  into  a  hack,  sprang  out  at  the  hotel 
entrance  and  corralled  the  clerk  as  he  was  leaving 
for  the  night.  For  some  minutes  we  pored  over  a 
railway  guide.  This  was  the  result : 

Leave  Marshall  at  1.40  A.M.,  make  a  short  run 
up  the  road  to  Battle  Creek,  stay  there  until  half 
past  three,  then  back  again  through  Marshall  with 
out  stopping,  to  Jackson — lie  over  another  hour 
and  so  on  to  Adrian  and  Toledo  for  breakfast,  ar 
riving  at  Cleveland  at  11.30  the  next  morning.  An 
all-night  trip,  of  course,  with  changes  so  frequent 
as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  sleep,  but  a  per 
fectly  feasible  one  if  the  trains  made  reasonable 
time  and  connections. 

This  despatch  went  over  the  wires  in  reply : 

"Yes,  weather  permitting." 

To  go  upstairs  and  to  bed  and  to  be  called  in  two 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

hours  wouldn't  pay  for  the  trouble  of  undressing; 
better  pick  out  the  warm  side  of  the  stove,  take  two 
chairs  and  a  paper  two  days  old  and  kill  time  until 
one  o'clock.  I  killed  it  alone — everybody  having 
gone  to  sleep  but  the  night  porter,  who  was  to 
telephone  for  the  hack  and  assist  with  my  luggage. 

It  was  a  silent  night.  One  of  those  white,  cold, 
silent  nights  when  everything  seems  frozen — the 
people  as  well  as  the  ground;  no  wind,  no  sounds 
from  barking  dogs  or  tread  of  hoof  or  rumble  of 
wheels.  A  light  snow  was  falling — an  unnoticed 
snow,  for  the  porter  and  I  were  the  only  people 
awake;  at  eleven  o'clock  a  few  whirling  flakes;  at 
twelve  o'clock  an  inch  deep,  packed  fine  as  salt,  and 
as  hard ;  at  one  o'clock  three  inches  deep,  smooth  as 
a  sheet  and  as  unbroken;  no  furrow  of  wheels  or 
slur  of  footstep.  The  people  might  have  been  in 
their  graves  and  the  snow  their  winding-shroud. 

"Hack's  ready,  sir."  This  from  the  porter, 
rubbing  his  eyes  and  stumbling  along  with  my 
luggage. 

Into  the  hack  again — same  hack;  it  had  been 
driven  under  the  shed,  making  a  night  of  it,  too — 

5 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

my  trunk  with  a  red  band  outside  with  the  driver, 
my  fur  overcoat  and  grip  inside  with  me. 

There  is  nothing  princely,  now,  about  this  coat ; 
you  wouldn't  be  specially  proud  of  it  if  you  could 
see  it — just  a  plain  fur  overcoat — an  old  friend 
really — and  still  is.  On  cold  nights  I  put  it  next 
to  the  frozen  side  of  the  car  when  I  am  lying  in  my 
berth.  Often  it  covers  my  bed  when  the  ther 
mometer  has  dropped  to  zero  and  below,  and  I  am 
sleeping  with  my  window  up.  It  has  had  experi 
ences,  too,  this  fur  coat ;  a  boy  went  home  in  it  once 
with  a  broken  leg,  and  his  little  sister  rode  with 
her  arm  around  him,  and  once — but  this  isn't  the 
place  to  tell  about  it. 

From  the  hotel  to  the  station  the  spools  of  the 
hack  paid  out  two  wabbly  parallel  threads,  string 
ing  them  around  corners  and  into  narrow  streets 
and  out  again,  so  that  the  team  could  find  its  way 
back,  perhaps. 

Another  porter  now  met  me — not  sleepy  this 
time,  but  very  much  awake;  a  big  fellow  in  a 
jumper,  with  a  number  on  his  cap,  who  caught  the 
red-banded  trunk  by  the  handle  and  "yanked"  it 

6 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

(admirable  word  this!)  on  to  the  platform,  shout 
ing  out  in  the  same  breath,  "Cleveland  via  Battle 
Creek — no  extras!" 

Then  came  the  shriek  of  the  incoming  train— 
a  local  bound  for  Battle  Creek  and  beyond.  Two 
cars  on  this  train,  a  passenger  and  a  smoker.  I 
lugged  the  fur  overcoat  and  grip  up  the  snow- 
clogged  steps  and  entered  the  smoker.  No  Pull 
man  on  these  locals,  and,  of  course,  no  porter,  and 
travellers,  therefore,  did  their  own  lifting  and 
lugging. 

The  view  down  the  perspective  of  this  smoker  was 
like  a  view  across  a  battle-field,  the  long  slanting 
lines  of  smoke  telling  of  the  carnage.  Bodies  (dead 
with  sleep)  were  lying  in  every  conceivable  position, 
with  legs  and  arms  thrust  up  as  if  the  victims  had 
died  in  agony ;  some  face  down ;  others  with  gaping 
mouths  and  heads  hooked  across  the  seats.  These 
heads  and  arms  and  legs  made  the  passage  of  the 
aisle  difficult.  One — a  leg — got  tangled  in  my 
overcoat,  and  the  head  belonging  to  it  said  with  a 
groan : 

"Where  in  h —  are  you  goin'  with  that " 

7 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

But  I  did  not  stop.  I  kept  on  my  way  to  the 
passenger  coach.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  no 
Pullman  with  a  porter  attached  was  run  on  this 
local. 

There  was  no  smoke  in  this  coach.  Neither  was 
there  any  heat.  There  was  nothing  that  could 
cause  it.  Something  had  happened,  perhaps  to  the 
coupling  of  the  steam  hose  so  that  it  wouldn't 
couple ;  or  the  bottom  was  out  of  the  hollow  mock 
ery  called  a  heater ;  or  the  coal  had  been  held  up. 
Whatever  the  cause,  a  freight  shed  was  a  palm 
garden  beside  it.  Nor  had  it  any  signs  of  a  battle 
field.  It  looked  more  like  a  ward  in  a  hospital  with 
most  of  the  beds  empty.  Only  one  or  two  were  occu 
pied;  one  by  a  baby  and  another  by  its  mother — 
the  woman  on  one  seat,  her  hand  across  the  body 
of  the  child,  and  both  fast  asleep,  one  little  bare 
foot  peeping  out  from  beneath  the  shawl  that  cov 
ered  the  child,  like  a  pink  flower  a-bloom  in  a  desert. 

I  can  always  get  along  in  a  cold  car.  It  is  a  hot 
one  that  incites  me  to  murder  the  porter  or  the 
brakeman.  I  took  off  the  coat  I  was  wearing  and 
laid  it  flat  on  a  seat.  Then  came  a  layer  of  myself 

8 


Heads  and  arms  and  legs  made  the  passage  of  the  aisle  difficult. 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

with  the  grip  for  a  pillow,  and  then  a  top  crust  of 
my  old  friend.  They  might  have  knocked  out  the 
end  of  the  car  now  and  I  should  have  been  com 
fortable.  Not  to  sleep — forty  minutes  wouldn't  be 
of  the  slightest  service  to  a  night  watchman,  let 
alone  an  all-night  traveller — but  so  as  to  be  out  of 
the  way  of  porterless-passengers  lugging  grips. 

The  weather  now  took  a  hand  in  the  game.  The 
cold  grew  more  intense,  creeping  stealthily  along, 
blowing  its  frosty  breath  on  the  windows ;  so  dense 
on  some  panes  that  the  lights  of  the  stations  no 
longer  shone  clear,  but  were  blurred,  like  lamps  in 
a  fog.  The  incoming  passengers  felt  it  and  stamped 
their  feet,  shedding  the  snow  from  their  boots.  Now 
and  then  some  traveller,  colder  than  his  fellow, 
stopped  at  the  fraudulent  heater  to  warm  his  fingers 
before  finding  a  seat,  and,  strange  to  say,  passed 
on  satisfied — due  to  his  heated  imagination,  no 
doubt. 

The  blanket  of  white  was  now  six  inches  thick, 
and  increasing  every  minute.  The  wind  was  still 
asleep. 

"Guess  we're  in  for  it,"  said  the  conductor  to  a 
9 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ticket  stuck  in  the  hat  of  a  man  seated  in  front.  "I 
hear  No.  6  is  stalled  chuck-a-block  this  side  of 
Schoolcraft.  We'll  make  Battle  Creek  anyway, 
and  as  much  furder  as  we  can  get,  but  there  ain't 
no  tellin'  where  we'll  bring  up." 

I  thrust  my  ticket  hand  through  the  crust  of  my 
overcoat  and  the  steel  nippers  perforated  the  bit 
of  cardboard  with  a  click.  I  was  undisturbed. 
Battle  Creek  was  where  I  was  to  get  off;  what 
became  of  the  train  after  that  was  no  affair  of 
mine. 

Only  one  thing  worried  me  as  I  lay  curled  up  like 
a  cocoon.  Was  there  a  hotel  at  Battle  Creek  within 
reasonable  distance  (walking,  of  course;  no  hack 
would  be  out  a  night  like  this  ) ,  with  a  warm  side  to 
its  stove  and  two  more  chairs  in  which  I  could  pass 
the  time  of  my  stay,  or  would  there  be  only  the 
railroad  station — and  if  the  last,  what  sort  of  a 
railroad  station? — one  of  those  bare,  varnished, 
steam-heated  affairs  with  a  weighing  machine  in  one 
corner  and  a  slot  machine  in  the  other?  or  a  less 
modern  chamber  of  horrors  with  the  seats  divided 
by  iron  arms — instruments  of  torture  for  tired, 

10 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

sleepy  men  which  must  have  been  devised  in  the 
Middle  Ages  ? 

The  wind  now  awoke  with  a  howl,  kicked  off  its 
counterpane  and  started  out  on  a  career  of  its  own. 
Ventilators  began  to  rattle;  incoming  passengers 
entered  with  hands  on  their  hats;  outgoing  pas 
sengers  had  theirs  whipped  from  their  heads  before 
they  touched  the  platforms  of  the  stations.  The 
conductor  as  he  passed  shook  his  head  ominously : 

"  Goin'  to  be  a  ring-tailed  roarer,"  he  said  to  a 
man  in  the  aisle  whose  face  was  tied  up  in  a  shawl 
with  the  ends  knotted  on  top  of  his  cap,  like  a  boy 
with  the  toothache.  "Cold  enough  to  freeze  the 
rivets  in  the  b'iler.  Be  wuss  by  daylight." 

"  Will  we  make  Battle  Creek?"  I  asked,  lifting 
my  head  from  the  grip. 

"Yes;  be  there  in  two  minutes.  He's  blowin'  for 
her  now." 

Before  the  brakeman  had  tightened  his  clutch 
on  his  brake  I  was  on  my  feet,  had  shifted  over 
coats,  and  was  leaning  against  the  fraudulent 
heater  ready  to  face  the  storm. 

It  would  have  been  a  far-seeing  eye  that  could 
11 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

have  discovered  a  hotel.  All  I  saw  as  I  dropped  to 
the  snow-covered  platform  was  a  row  of  gas  jets, 
a  lone  figure  pushing  a  truck  piled  up  with  lug 
gage,  one  arm  across  his  face  to  shield  it  from  the 
cutting  snow,  and  above  me  the  gray  mass  of  the 
station,  its  roof  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  wintry 
night.  Then  an  unencumbered  passenger,  more 
active  than  I,  passed  me  up  the  wind-swept  plat 
form,  pushed  open  a  door,  and  he  and  I  stepped 
into —  What  did  I  step  into?  Well,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  you  to  imagine,  and  so  I  will  tell 
you  in  a  new  paragraph. 

I  stepped  into  a  little  gem  of  a  station,  looking 
like  a  library  without  its  books,  covered  by  a  low 
roof,  pierced  by  quaint  windows  and  fitted  with 
a  big,  deep,  all-embracing  fireplace  ablaze  with 
crackling  logs  resting  on  old-fashioned  iron  dogs, 
and  beside  them  on  the  hearth  a  huge  pile  of  birch 
wood.  A  room  once  seen  never  to  be  forgotten — a 
cosey  box  of  a  place,  full  of  curved  alcoves  and  half- 
round  recesses  with  still  smaller  windows,  and  a 
table  bearing  a  silver-plated  ice-pitcher  and  two 
silver-plated  goblets,  unchained  (really,  I  am  tell- 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

ing  the  truth),  and  big  easy  chairs,  five  or  six  of 
them,  some  of  wicker-work  with  cushions,  and  a 
straw  lounge  big  enough  and  long  enough  to 
stretch  out  on  at  full  length.  All  this,  remember, 
from  out  a  night  savage  as  a  pack  of  wolves,  and 
quite  a  thousand  miles  from  home. 

I  gravitated  instinctively  toward  the  fire,  threw 
my  overcoat  and  grip  on  the  lounge  and  looked 
about  me.  The  one  passenger  besides  myself  tarried 
long  enough  at  the  ticket  office  to  speak  to  the 
clerk,  and  then  passed  on  through  the  other  door. 
He  lived  here,  perhaps,  or  preferred  the  hotel — 
wherever  that  was — to  the  comforts  of  the  station. 

The  ticket-clerk  locked  his  office,  looked  over  to 
where  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  blazing  fire,  my 
eyes  roving  around  the  room,  and  called  out : 

"I'm  going  home  now.  Hotel's  only  three  blocks 
away." 

"When  is  the  down  train  due?"  I  asked. 

"Three-thirty." 

"Will  it  be  on  time?" 

"Never  stole  it.  Search  me!  May  be  an  hour 
late ;  may  be  two,"  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

13 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"I'll  stay  here,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Course — glad  to  have  you.  You'll  want  more 
wood,  though.  .  .  .  John !  " — this  to  the  man 
who  had  been  pushing  the  truck — "  bring  in  some 
more  wood;  man's  going  to  stay  here  for  No.  8. 
Good-night."  And  he  shut  the  door  and  went  out 
into  the  storm,  his  coat-sleeve  across  his  face. 

John  appeared  and  dropped  an  armful  of  clean 
split  silver-backed  birch  logs  in  a  heap  on  the 
hearth,  remarking  as  he  bobbed  his  head  good 
night,  "Guess  you  won't  freeze,"  and  left  by  the 
same  exit  as  the  clerk,  a  breath  of  the  North  Pole 
being  puffed  into  the  cosey  room  as  he  opened  and 
shut  the  door. 

There  are  times  when  to  me  it  is  a  delight  to  be 
left  alone.  I  invariably  experience  it  when  I  am 
sketching.  I  often  have  this  feeling,  too,  when  my 
study  door  is  shut  and  I  am  alone  with  my  work  and 
books.  I  had  it  in  an  increased  degree  this  night, 
with  the  snow  drifting  outside,  the  wind  fingering 
around  the  windows  seeking  for  an  entrance,  and 
the  whole  world  sound  asleep  except  myself.  It 
seemed  good  to  be  alone  in  the  white  stillness. 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

What  difference  did  the  time  of  night  make,  or  the 
place,  or  the  storm,  or  the  morrow  and  what  it 
might  bring,  so  long  as  I  could  repeat  in  a  measure 
the  comforts  and  privacy  of  my  own  dear  den  at 
home  ? 

I  began  to  put  my  house  in  order.  The  table 
with  the  pitcher  and  goblets  was  drawn  up  by  the 
side  of  the  sofa;  two  easy  chairs  moved  into  posi 
tion,  one  for  my  feet  and  one  for  my  back,  where 
the  overhanging  electric  light  would  fall  conven 
iently,  and  another  log  thrown  on  the  fire,  sending 
the  crisp  blazing  sparks  upward.  My  fur  over 
coat  was  next  hung  over  the  chair  with  the  fur  side 
out,  the  grip  opened,  and  the  several  comforts  one 
always  carries  were  fished  out  and  laid  beside  the  ice- 
pitcher — my  flask  of  Private  Stock,  a  collar-box 
full  of  cigars,  some  books  and  a  bundle  of  proof 
with  a  special  delivery  stamp — proofs  that  should 
have  been  revised  and  mailed  two  days  before. 
These  last  were  placed  within  reach  of  my  hand. 

When  all  was  in  order  for  the  master  of  the 
house  to  take  his  ease,  I  unscrewed  the  top  of  the 
flask,  and  with  the  help  of  the  pitcher  and  the  gob- 

15 


AT    CLOSE     RANGE 

let  compounded  a  comfort.  Then  I  lighted  a  cigar 
and  began  a  tour  of  the  room.  The  windows  were 
banked  up  with  the  drift ;  through  the  half-blinded 
panes  I  could  see  the  flickering  gas  jets  and  on  the 
snow  below  them  the  disks  of  white  light.  Beyond 
these  stretched  a  ruling  of  tracks  edged  by  a  bor 
dering  of  empty  yard-cars,  then  a  waste  of  white 
ending  in  gloom.  The  only  sounds  were  the  creak 
ing  of  the  depot  signs  swaying  in  the  wind  and  the 
crackle  of  the  logs  on  my  hearth — mine  now  in  the 
isolation,  as  was  everything  else  about  me.  Next  I 
looked  between  the  wooden  spindles  of  the  f enced-in 
ticket  office,  and  saw  where  the  clerk  worked  and 
how  he  kept  his  pens  racked  up  and  the  hook  on 
which  he  hung  his  hat  and  coat,  and  near  it  the 
news-stand  locked  tight,  only  the  book  posters  show 
ing  over  the  top,  and  so  on  back  to  my  fire  and  into 
my  fur-lined  throne.  Then,  with  a  sip  of  P.  S.,  I 
picked  up  my  proof  sheets  and  began  to  work. 

Before  I  had  corrected  my  first  galley  my  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  stamping  feet  outside.  Some 
early  train-hand,  perhaps,  or  porter,  or  some  pas 
senger  who  had  misread  the  schedule;  for  nothing 

16 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

up  or  down  was  to  pass  the  station  except,  perhaps, 
a  belated  freight.  Then  the  door  was  burst  open, 
and  a  voice  as  crisp  as  the  gust  of  wind  that  ush 
ered  it  in  called  out : 

"  Well,  begorra !  ye  look  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a 
rug.  What  d'ye  think  of  this  for  a  night?" 

He  was  approaching  the  fire  now,  shaking  the 
snow  from  his  uniform  and  beating  his  hands  to 
gether  as  he  walked. 

I  have  a  language  adapted  to  policemen  and  their 
kind,  and  I  invariably  use  it  when  occasion  offers. 
Strange  to  say,  my  delight  at  being  alone  had  now 
lost  its  edge. 

"Corker,  isn't  it?"  I  answered.  "Draw  up  a 
chair  and  make  yourself  comfortable." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  By  Jiminy!  I 
thought  the  ears  of  me  would  freeze  as  I  come 
acrost  the  yard.  What  are  ye  waitin'  for — the 
3.30?" 

"I  am.  Here,  take  a  nip  of  this,"  and  I  handed 
him  the  other  goblet  and  pushed  the  P.  S.  his  way. 
Corrupting  the  Force,  I  know,  but  then  consider  the 
temptation,  and  the  fact  that  I  was  stranded  on  a 

17 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

lone  isle  of  the  sea,  or  adrift  on  a  detached  ice  floe 
(that's  a  better  simile),  and  he  the  only  other 
human  being  within  reach. 

He  raised  the  flask  to  his  eye,  noted  the  flow  line, 
poured  out  three  fingers,  added  one  finger  of  water, 
said  "How!"  and  emptied  the  mixture  into  his 
person.  Then  I  handed  him  a  cigar,  laid  aside  my 
proofs  and  began  to  talk.  I  not  only  had  a  fire  and 
a  pile  of  wood,  with  something  to  smoke  and 
enough  P.  S.  for  two,  but  I  had  a  friend  to  enjoy 
them  with  me.  Marvellous  place — this  Battle  Creek ! 

"Anything  doing?"  I  asked  after  the  storm  and 
the  night  had  been  discussed  and  my  lighted  match 
had  kindled  his  cigar. 

"Only  a  couple  o'  drunks  lyin'  outside  a  j'int," 
he  answered,  stretching  his  full  length  in  the  chair. 

"Did  you  run  'em  in?" 

"No,  the  station  was  some  ways,  so  I  tuk  'em 
inside.  I  know  the  feller  that  runs  the  j'int  an'  the 
back  dure  was  open — "  and  he  winked  at  me. 
"They'd  froze  if  I'd  left  'em  in  the  drift.  Wan  had 
the  ears  of  him  purty  blue  as  it  wuz." 

"Anything  else?" 

18 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

"Well,  there  was  a  woman  hollerin'  bloody 
murther  back  o'  the  lumber  yard,  but  I  didn't  stop 
to  luk  her  up.  They're  allus  raisin'  a  muss  up  there 
— it  was  in  thim  tiniments.  Ye  know  the  place." 
( He  evidently  took  me  for  a  resident  or  a  rounder. ) 
"Guess  I'll  be  joggin'  'long"  (here  he  rose  to  his 
feet),  "my  beat's  both  sides  of  the  depot  an'  I 
daren't  stop  long.  Good  luck  to  ye." 

"Will  you  drop  in  again?" 

"Yes,  maybe  I  will,"  and  he  opened  the  door 
and  stepped  out,  his  hand  on  his  cap  as  the  wind 
struck  it. 

Half  an  hour  passed. 

Then  the  cough  of  a  distant  locomotive,  catching 
its  breath  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale,  followed  by  the 
rumbling  of  a  heavily  loaded  train,  growing  louder 
as  it  approached,  could  be  heard  above  the  wail  of 
the  storm. 

When  it  arrived  off  my  window  I  rose  from  my 
seat  and  looked  out  through  the  blurred  glass.  The 
breast  of  the  locomotive  was  a  bank  of  snow,  the 
fronts  and  sides  of  the  cars  were  plastered  with  the 
drift.  The  engineer's  head  hung  out  of  the  cab  win- 

19 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

dow,  his  eye  on  the  swinging  signal  lights.  Hud 
dling  close  under  the  lee  of  the  last  box  car 
I  caught  the  outline  of  a  brakeman,  his  cap  pulled 
over  his  ears,  his  jacket  buttoned  tight.  The  train 
passed  without  stopping,  the  cough  of  the  engine 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  as  it  was  lost  in  the 
whirl  of  the  gale.  I  regained  my  seat,  lighted  an 
other  cigar  and  picked  up  my  proofs  again. 

Another  half  hour  passed.  The  world  began  to 
awake. 

First  came  the  clerk  with  a  cheery  nod ;  then  the 
man  who  had  brought  in  the  wood  and  who  walked 
straight  toward  the  pile  to  see  how  much  of  it  was 
left  and  whether  I  needed  any  more ;  then  the  lone 
passenger  who  had  gone  to  the  hotel  and  who  was 
filled  to  the  bursting  point  with  profanity,  and  who 
emitted  it  in  blue  streaks  of  swear-words  because 
of  his  accommodations;  and  last  the  policeman, 
beating  his  chest  like  a  gorilla,  the  snow  flying  in 
every  direction. 

The  circle  widened  and  another  log  was  thrown 
on  the  crackling  fire.  More  easy  chairs  were  drawn 
up,  the  policeman  in  one  and  the  clerk  in  another. 

20 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

Then  the  same  old  pantomime  took  place  over  the 
P.  S.  and  the  goblets,  and  the  old  collar-box  had 
its  lid  lifted  and  did  its  duty  bravely.  The  lone 
passenger,  being  ill-tempered  and  out  of  harmony 
with  the  surroundings,  was  not  invited.  (What 
a  lot  of  fun  the  ill-tempered  miss  in  this  world  of 
care!) 

Some  talk  of  the  road  now  followed,  whether  the 
Flyer  would  get  through  to  Chicago,  the  clerk  re 
marking  that  No.  8  ought  to  arrive  at  3.30,  as  it 
was  a  local  and  only  came  from  Kalamazoo.  Talk, 
too,  of  how  long  I  would  have  to  wait  at  Jackson, 
and  what  accommodations  the  train  had,  the  clerk 
in  an  apologetic  voice  remarking,  as  he  sipped  his 
P.  S.,  that  it  was  a  "straight  passenger,"  with  noth 
ing  aboard  that  would  suit  me.  Talk  of  the  town, 
the  policeman  saying  that  the  woman  was  "bilin' 
drunk"  and  he  had  to  run  both  her  and  the  old  man 
in  before  the  "tiniment  got  quiet,"  the  lone  pas 
senger  interpolating  from  his  seat  by  the  steam 
pipes  that —  But  it's  just  as  well  to  omit  what  the 
lone  passenger  said,  or  this  paper  would  never  see 
the  light. 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

At  3.30  the  clerk  sprang  from  his  chair.  He  had, 
with  his  quick  ear,  caught  the  long-drawn-out 
shriek  of  No.  8  above  the  thrash  of  the  storm. 

Into  my  overcoat  again,  in  a  hurry  this  time — 
everybody  helping — the  fur  one,  of  course,  the 
other  on  my  arm — a  handshake  all  round,  out  again 
into  the  whirl,  the  policeman  carrying  the  grip ; 
up  a  slant  of  snow  on  the  steps  of  the  cars — not  a 
traveller's  foot  had  yet  touched  it,  and  into  an 
ordinary  passenger  coach:  all  in  less  than  two 
minutes — less  time,  in  fact,  than  it  would  take  to 
shift  the  scenery  in  a  melodrama,  and  with  as 
startling  results. 

No  sleeping  corpses  here  sprawled  over  seats, 
with  arms  and  legs  thrust  up ;  no  mothers  watched 
their  children;  no  half-frozen  travellers  shivered 
beside  ice-cold  heaters.  The  car  was  warm,  the  lights 
burned  cheerily,  the  seats  were  unlocked  and  faced 
both  ways. 

Not  many  passengers  either — only  six  besides 
myself  at  my  end.  Three  of  them  were  wearing 
picture  hats  the  size  of  tea-trays,  short  skirts,  and 
high  shoes  with  red  heels.  The  other  three  wore 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

Derbies  and  the  unmistakable  garb  of  the  average 
drummer.  Each  couple  had  a  double  seat  all  to 
themselves,  and  all  six  were  shouting  with  laughter. 
Packed  in  the  other  end  of  the  car  were  the  usual 
collection  of  travellers  seen  on  an  owl  train. 

I  passed  on  toward  the  middle  of  the  coach, 
turned  a  seat,  and  proceeded  to  camp  for  the  night. 
The  overcoat  did  service  now  as  a  seat  cushion  and 
the  grip  as  a  rest  for  my  elbow. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  girls  belonged  to 
a  troupe  on  their  way  to  Detroit ;  that  they  had 
danced  in  Kalamazoo  but  a  few  hours  before,  had 
supped  with  the  drummers,  and  had  boarded  the 
train  at  2.50.  As  their  conversation  was  addressed 
to  the  circumambient  air,  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
my  gaining  these  facts.  If  my  grave  and  reverend 
presence  acted  as  a  damper  on  their  hilarity,  there 
was  no  evidence  of  it  in  their  manner. 

"Say,  Liz,"  cried  the  girl  in  the  pink  waist,  "did 
you  catch  on  to  the —  "  Here  her  head  was  tucked 
under  the  chin  of  the  girl  behind  her. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Mame !"  answered  Liz.  "Now, 
George,  you  stop!"  This  with  a  scream  at  one  of 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

the  drummers,  whose  head  had  been  thrust  close  to 
Mame's  ear  in  an  attempt  to  listen. 

"Say,  girls,"  broke  in  another — they  were  all 
talking  at  once — "why,  them  fellers  in  the  front 
seat  went  on  awful !  I  seen  Sanders  lookin'  and — " 

"  Well,  what  if  he  did  look?  That  guy  ain't—" 
etc.,  etc. 

I  began  to  realize  now  why  the  other  passengers 
were  packed  together  in  the  far  end  of  the  car.  I 
broke  camp  and  moved  down  their  way. 

The  train  sped  on.  I  busied  myself  studying 
the  loops  and  curls  of  snow  that  the  eddying  wind 
was  piling  up  in  the  cuts  and  opens,  as  they  lay 
glistening  under  the  glow  of  the  lights  streaming 
through  the  car  windows;  noting,  too,  here  and 
there,  a  fence  post  standing  alone  where  some  curi 
ous  wind-fluke  had  scooped  clear  the  drifts. 

Soon  I  began  to  speculate  on  the  outcome  of  the 
trip.  I  had  at  best  only  three  hours  leeway 
between  11.30  A.M.,  the  schedule  time  of  arriving  in 
Cleveland,  and  2.30  P.M.,  the  hour  of  my  lecture — 
not  much  in  a  storm  like  this,  with  every  train  de 
layed  and  the  outlook  worse  every  hour. 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

At  Albion  the  drummers  got  out,  the  girls  wav 
ing  their  hands  at  them  through  the  frosted  win 
dows.  When  the  jolly  party  of  coryphees  regained 
their  seats,  their  regulation  smiles,  much  to  my  sur 
prise,  had  faded.  Five  minutes  later,  when  I  craned 
my  neck  to  look  at  them,  wondering  why  their 
boisterousness  had  ceased,  the  three  had  wrapped 
themselves  up  in  their  night  cloaks  and  were  fast 
asleep.  The  drummers,  no  doubt,  forgot  them  as 
quickly. 

The  conductor  now  came  along  and  shook  a 
sleepy  man  on  the  seat  behind  me  into  consciousness. 
He  had  a  small  leather  case  with  him  and  looked 
like  a  doctor — was,  probably;  picked  up  above 
Battle  Creek,  no  doubt,  by  a  hurry  call.  He  had 
been  catching  a  nap  while  he  could.  Jackson  was 
ten  minutes  away,  so  the  conductor  told  the  man. 

More  stumbling  down  the  snow-choked  steps  and 
plunging  through  drifts  (it  was  too  early  yet  for 
the  yard  shovellers),  and  I  entered  the  depot  at 
Jackson — my  second  stop  on  the  way  to  Cleveland. 

No  cry  of  delight  escaped  my  lips  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door.  The  Middle  Ages  have  it  all  their 
25 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

own  way  at  Jackson  and  still  do  unless  the  Battle 
Creek  architect  has  since  modernized  the  building. 
Nothing  longer  than  a  poodle  or  a  six  months' 
old  baby  could  stretch  its  length  on  these  iron- 
divided  seats.  "Move  on"  must  have  been  the  watch 
word,  for  nobody  sat — not  if  they  could  help  it. 
I  tried  it,  spreading  the  overcoat  between  two  of 
them,  but  the  iron  soon  entered  my  soul,  or  rather 
my  hip  joints,  and  yet  I  am  not  over  large.  No 
open  wood  fire,  of  course,  no  easy  chairs,  no 
lounge;  somebody  might  pass  a  few  minutes  in 
comfort  if  there  were.  There  was  a  sign,  I  remem 
ber,  nailed  up,  reading  "No  loiterers  allowed  here," 
an  utterly  useless  affair,  for  nobody  that  I  saw 
loitered.  They  "skedaddled"  at  once  (that's  an 
other  expressive  word,  old  as  it  is),  and  they  failed 
to  return  until  the  next  train  came  along.  Then 
they  gathered  for  a  moment  and  again  disap 
peared.  No,  the  station  building  at  Jackson  is  not 
an  enticing  place — not  after  Battle  Creek. 

And  yet  I  was  not  unhappy.  I  had  only  an 
hour  to  wait — perhaps  two — depending  on  the  way 
the  tracks  were  blocked. 

26 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

I  unlocked  the  grip.  There  was  nothing  left 
of  the  P.  S. — the  policeman  had  seen  to  that ;  and 
the  collar-box  was  empty — the  clerk  had  had  a  hand 
in  that — two,  if  I  remember.  The  proofs  were  fin 
ished  and  ready  to  mail,  and  so  I  buttoned  up  my 
fur  coat  and  went  out  into  the  night  again  in 
search  of  the  post-box,  tramping  the  platform 
where  the  wind  had  swept  it  clean.  The  crisp  air 
and  the  sting  of  the  snow-flakes  felt  good  to  me. 

Soon  my  eye  fell  on  a  lump  tied  up  with  rope 
and  half-buried  in  the  snow.  The  up-train  from 
Detroit  had  thrown  out  a  bundle  of  the  morning 
edition  of  the  Detroit  papers.  I  lugged  it  inside 
the  station,  brushed  off  the  snow,  dragged  it  to  a 
seat  beneath  a  flaring  gas  jet,  cut  the  rope  with  my 
knife  and  took  out  two  copies  damp  with  snow.  I 
was  in  touch  with  the  world  once  more,  whatever 
happened!  I  soon  forgot  the  hardness  of  the  seat 
and  only  became  conscious  that  someone  had  entered 
the  room  when  a  voice  startled  me  with : 

"Say,  Boss !" 

I  looked  up  over  my  paper  and  saw  a  boy  with 
his  head  tied  up  in  an  old-fashioned  tippet.  He 
27 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

was  blowing  his  breath  on  his  fingers,  his  cheeks 
like  two  red  apples. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"How  many  poipers  did  ye  swipe?" 

"Oh,  are  you  the  newsboy?  Do  these  belong  to 
you?" 

"You  bet!  How  many  ye  got?" 

"Two." 

"Ten  cents,  Boss.  Thank  ye,"  and  he  shouldered 
the  bundle  and  went  out  into  the  night,  where  a 
wagon  was  standing  to  receive  it. 

"Level-headed  boy,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Be  a 
millionaire  if  he  lives.  No  back  talk,  no  unneces 
sary  remarks  regarding  an  inexcusable  violation  of 
the  law — petty  larceny  if  anything.  Just  a  plain 
business  statement,  followed  by  an  immediate  cash 
settlement.  A  most  estimable  boy." 

A  road  employee  now  came  in,  looked  at  the  dull- 
faced  clock  on  the  wall,  went  out  through  a  door 
and  into  a  room  where  a  telegraph  instrument  was 
clicking  away,  returned  with  a  piece  of  chalk  and 
wrote  on  a  black-board: 

"No.  31—52  minutes  late." 
28 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

This  handwriting  on  the  wall  had  a  Belshazzar- 
feast  effect  on  me.  If  I  lost  the  connection  at 
Adrian,  what  would  become  of  the  lecture  in  Cleve 
land? 

Another  man  now  entered  carrying  a  black 
carpet-bag — a  sleepy  man  with  his  hair  tousled 
and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  gone  to  bed  in  his 
clothes.  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  key,  went 
straight  to  the  slot  machine,  unlocked  it,  disclosing 
a  reduced  stock  of  chewing-gum  and  chocolate  cara 
mels,  opened  his  carpet-bag  and  filled  the  machine 
to  the  top.  This  sort  of  a  man  wrorks  at  night,  I 
thought,  when  few  people  are  about.  To  uncover 
the  mysteries  of  a  slot  machine  before  a  gaping 
crowd  would  be  as  foolish  and  unprofitable  as  for 
a  conjurer  to  show  his  patrons  how  he  performed 
his  tricks. 

I  became  conscious  now,  even  as  I  turned  the 
sheets  of  the  journal,  that  while  my  flask  of  P.  S. 
and  the  contents  of  my  collar-box  were  admirable 
in  their  place,  they  were  not  capable  of  sustaining 
life,  even  had  both  receptacles  been  full,  which  they 
were  not.  There  was  evidently  nothing  to  eat  in 
29 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

the  station,  and  from  what  I  saw  of  the  outside,  no 
one  had  yet  started  a  fire ;  no  one  had  even  struck  a 
light. 

At  this  moment  a  gas  j  et  flashed  its  glare  through 
a  glass  door  to  my  right.  I  had  seen  this  door, 
but  supposed  it  led  to  the  baggage-room — a  fact 
that  did  not  concern  me  in  the  least,  for  I  had 
checked  my  red-banded  trunk  through  to  Cleveland. 
I  got  up  and  peered  in.  A  stout  woman  in  a  hood, 
with  a  blanket  shawl  crossed  over  her  bosom,  its 
ends  tied  behind  her  back,  was  busying  herself 
about  a  nickel-plated  coffee-urn  decorating  one  end 
of  a  long  counter  before  which  stood  a  row  of  high 
stools — the  kind  we  sat  on  in  school.  I  tried  the 
knob  of  the  door  and  walked  in. 

"Is  this  the  restaurant?" 

"What  would  ye  take  it  for — a  morgue?"  she 
snapped  out. 

"Can  I  get  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

"No,  ye  can't,  not  till  six  o'clock.  And  ye  won't 
git  it  then  if  somebody  don't  turn  out  to  help. 
Sittin'  up  all  night  lally-gaggin'  and  leavin'  a  pile 
o'  dirty  dishes  for  me  to  wash  up.  Look  at  'em !" 

30 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

"Who's  sitting  up?"  I  inquired  in  a  mild  voice. 

"These  'ladies'  '  —this  with  infinite  scorn — 
"that's  doin'  waitin'  for  six  dollars  a  week  and  what 
they  kin  pick  up,  and  it's  my  opinion  they  picks 
up  more'n  's  good  for  'em." 

"And  they  make  you  do  all  the  work?" 

"Well,  ye'd  think  so  if  ye  stayed  'round  here." 

"Can  I  help?" 

She  had  been  swabbing  down  the  counter  as  she 
talked,  accentuating  every  sentence  with  an  extra 
twist  of  her  arm,  the  wash-cloth  held  tight  be 
tween  her  fingers.  She  stopped  now  and  looked  me 
squarely  in  the  face. 

"Help!  What  are  you  good  for?"  There  was 
a  tone  of  contempt  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  I'm  handy  passing  plates  and  cutting 
bread  and  pie.  I've  nothing  to  do  till  the  train 
comes  along.  Try  me  a  while." 

"You  don't  look  like  no  waiter." 

"But  I  am.  I've  been  waiting  on  people  all  my 

life."  I  had  crawled  under  the  counter  now  and 

was   standing  beside   her.    "Where   will  you   have 

this?  "  and  I  picked  up  from  a  side  table  a  dish  of 

31 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

apples  and  oranges  caged  in  a  wire  screen.  I  knew 
I  was  lost  if  I  hesitated. 

"Lay  'em  here,"  she  answered  without  a  word  of 
protest.  I  was  not  surprised.  The  big  and  bound 
less  West  has  no  place  for  men  ashamed  to  work 
with  their  hands.  Only  the  week  before,  in  Colorado 
Springs,  I  had  dined  at  a  house  where  the  second 
son  of  a  noble  lord  had  delivered  the  family  milk 
that  same  morning,  he  being  the  guest  of  honor. 
And  then — I  was  hungry. 

The  woman  watched  me  put  the  finishing  touches 
on  the  dish  of  fruit,  and  said  in  an  altered  tone,  as 
if  her  misgivings  had  been  satisfied : 

"Now,  fill  that  bucket  with  water,  will  ye?  The 
sink's  behind  ye.  I'll  start  the  coffee.  And  here!" 
and  she  handed  me  a  key — "after  ye  fetch  the 
water,  unlock  the  refrigerator  and  bring  me  that 
ham  and  them  baked  beans." 

Before  the  "ladies"  had  arrived — half  an  hour, 
in  fact,  before  one  of  them  had  put  in  an  appear 
ance — I  was  seated  at  a  small  table  covered  with 
a  clean  cloth  (I  had  set  the  table)  with  half  a  ham, 
a  whole  loaf  of  bread,  a  pitcher  of  milk  that  had 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

been  left  outside  in  the  snow  and  was  full  of  lovely 
ice  crystals,  a  smoking  cup  of  coffee  and  a  smoking 
pile  of  griddle  cakes  which  the  woman  had  com 
pounded  from  the  contents  of  two  paper  packages, 
and  which  she  herself  had  cooked  on  a  gas  griddle 
— and  very  good  cakes  they  were:  total  cost,  as 
per  schedule,  fifty  cents. 

Breakfast  over,  I  again  sought  the  seclusion  of 
the  Torture  Chamber.  The  man  with  the  piece  of 
chalk  had  been  kept  busy.  No.  31  was  now  one  hour 
and  forty-two  minutes  late. 

When  it  finally  reached  Jackson  and  I  boarded 
it  with  my  grip  and  overcoat,  it  looked  as  if  it  had 
run  into  a  glacier  somewhere  up  the  road  and  had 
half  a  snowslide  still  clinging  to  its  length. 

Day  had  broken  now,  and  what  light  could  sift 
its  way  through  the  falling  flakes,  shone  cold  and 
gray  into  the  frost-dimmed  windows  of  the  car.  I 
had  lost  more  than  two  hours  of  my  leeway  of  three, 
and  the  drifts  were  still  level  with  the  hubs  of  the 
driving-wheels. 

We  shunted  and  puffed  and  jerked  along,  wait 
ing  on  side  tracks  for  freight  trains  hours  behind 

33 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

time  and  switching  out  of  the  way  of  delayed 
"Flyers,"  and  finally  reached  Adrian.  (Does  any 
body  know  of  a  Flyer  that  is  on  time  when  but  a 
bare  inch  of  snow  covers  the  track?) 

Out  of  the  car  again,  still  lugging  my  impedi 
menta. 

"Train  for  Toledo  and  the  East,  did  you  say?" 
answered  the  ticket  agent.  "Yes,  No.  32  is  due  in 
ten  minutes — she's  way  behind  time  and  so  you've 
just  caught  her.  Your  ticket  is  good,  but  you  can't 
carry  no  baggage." 

The  information  came  as  a  distinct  shock.  No 
baggage  meant  no  proper  habiliments  in  which 
to  appear  before  my  distinguished  and  critical 
audience — the  most  distinguished  and  critical  which 
I  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  address — a  young 
ladies'  school. 

"Why  no  baggage?" 

"'Cause  there's  nothing  but  Pullmans,  and  only 
express  freight  carried — it's  a  news  train.  Ought 
to  have  been  here  a  week  ago." 

"Can  I  give  up  my  check  and  send  my  trunk  by 
express  ?" 


A    NIGHT    OUT 

"Yes.  That's  the  agent  over  there  by  the  radi 
ator." 

One  American  dollar  accomplished  it — a  silver 
one;  they  don't  use  any  other  kind  of  money  out 
West. 

When  No.  32  hove  in  sight — the  Fast  Mail  is  its 
proper  name — and  stopped  opposite  the  small  sta 
tion  at  Adrian,  a  blessed,  beloved,  be-capped,  be- 
buttoned  and  be-overcoated  Pullman  porter — an  at 
tentive,  considerate,  alert  porter — emerged  from  it 
and  at  a  sign  from  me  picked  up  my  overcoat  and 
grip — they  now  weighed  a  ton  apiece — and  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  conducted  me  into  a  well-swept, 
well-ordered  Pullman. 

"Porter,  what's  your  name?"  I  inquired.  (I 
always  ask  a  porter  his  name.) 

"Samuel  Thomas,  sah." 

"Sam,  is  there  a  berth  left?" 

"Yes,  sah— No.  9  lower." 

"Is  it  in  order?" 

"Yes,  sah — made  up  for  a  gem'man  at  South 
Bend,  but  he  didn't  show  up." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

35 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

It  was  exactly  as  he  had  stated;  even  the  upper 
berth  was  clewed  up. 

"Sam!" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"Are  you  married?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"Got  any  children?" 

"Yes,  sah— two." 

"Think  a  good  deal  of  them?" 

"Yes,  sah."  The  darky  was  evidently  at  sea  now. 

"Well,  Sam,  I'm  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  If 
anybody  disturbs  me  until  we  get  within  fifteen 
minutes  of  Cleveland,  your  family  will  never  see 
you  alive  again.  Do  you  understand,  Sam?" 

"Yes,  sah,  I  understand."  His  face  was  in  a  broad 
grin  now.  "Thank  ye,  sah.  Here's  an  extra  pil 
low,"  and  he  drew  the  curtains  about  me. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  two,  and  with  five 
minutes  to  spare,  I  stepped  on  to  the  platform  of 
the  Academy  for  Young  Ladies  in  Cleveland,  prop 
erly  clothed  and  in  my  right  mind. 

The  "weather  had  permitted." 
36 


AN     EXTRA     BLANKET 


AN     EXTRA     BLANKET 

STEVE  was  angry. 

You  could  see  that  from  the  way  he  strode  up 
and  down  the  platform  of  the  covered  railroad  sta 
tion,  talking  to  himself  in  staccato  explosives,  like 
an  automobile  getting  under  way.  Steve  had  lost 
his  sample  trunk ;  and  a  drummer  without  his  trunk 
is  as  helpless  as  a  lone  fisherman  without  bait. 

Outside,  a  snow-storm  was  working  itself  up  into 
a  blizzard;  cuts  level  with  the  fences,  short  curves 
choked  with  drifts,  flat  stretches  bare  of  a  flake. 
Inside,  a  panting  locomotive  crawled  ahead  of  two 
Pullmans  and  a  baggage — a  Special  from  Detroit 
to  Kalamazoo,  six  hours  late,  loaded  with  comic- 
opera  people,  their  baggage,  properties — and 
Steve's  lost  trunk. 

When  the  train  pulled  up  opposite  to  where 
39 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Steve  stood,  the  engine  looked  like  a  snow-plough 
that  had  burrowed  through  a  drift. 

Steve  moved  down  to  the  step  of  the  first  Pull 
man,  his  absorbing  eye  taking  in  the  train,  the 
fragments  of  the  drift,  and  the  noses  of  the 
chorus  girls  pressed  flat  against  the  frosted  panes. 
The  conductor  was  now  on  the  platform,  crunch 
ing  a  tissue  telegram  which  the  station-master  had 
just  handed  him.  He  had  stopped  for  orders  and 
for  a  wider  breathing  space,  where  he  could  get 
out  into  the  open  and  stretch  his  arms,  and  become 
personal  and  perhaps  profane  without  wounding 
the  feelings  of  his  passengers. 

Steve  stepped  up  beside  him  and  showed  him 
an  open  telegram. 

"Yes,  your  trunk's  aboard  all  right,"  replied  the 
conductor,  "but  I  couldn't  find  it  in  a  week.  A 
lot  of  scenery  and  ladders  and  truck  all  piled  in. 
I  am  sorry,  but  I  wouldn't " 

"What  you  'wouldn't,'  my  sweet  Aleck,  don't 
interest  me,"  exploded  Steve.  "You  get  a  couple  of 
porters  and  go  through  that  stuff  and  find  my 

trunk,  or  I'll  wire  the  main  office  that " 

40 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

"See  here,  young  feller.  Don't  get  gay.  Hit  that 
gourd  of  yours  another  crack  and  maybe  you'll 
knock  some  sense  into  it.  We're  six  hours  late,  ain't 
we?  We  got  three  hours  to  make  Kalamazoo  in, 
ain't  we?  This  show's  got  to  get  there  on  time,  or 
there'll  be  H  to  pay  and  no  pitch  hot.  Now  go  out 
side  and  stand  in  a  door  somewheres  and  let  the 
wind  blow  through  you.  I'll  wire  you  in  the  morn 
ing,  or  you  can  take  the  5.40  and  pick  your  trunk 
up  at  Kalamazoo. — Let  her  go,  Johnny" — this  to 
the  engine-driver.  "All  aboard !" 

Steve  jerked  a  cigar  from  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
cut  off  the  end,  and  said,  with  a  bite-in-two-ten- 
penny-nail  expression  about  his  lips : 

"  Steve,  you're  'it.'  I'll  git  that  trunk  at  Kala 
mazoo." 

Then  he  crossed  the  platform,  made  his  way  to 
the  street  entrance,  and  stepped  into  the  omnibus 
of  the  only  hotel  in  the  town. 

When  the  swinging  sign  of  the  Two-dollar 
House,  blurred  in  the  whirl  of  the  storm,  hove  in 
sight,  Steve's  face  was  still  knotted  in  wrinkles.  He 
had  a  customer  in  this  town  good  for  three  hun- 

41 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

dred  dozen  table  cutlery,  and  but  for  "this  gang 
of  cross-tie  steppers,"  he  said  to  himself,  he  would 
.  .  .  Here  the  hind  heels  of  the  'bus  hit  the  curb, 
cutting  short  Steve's  anathema. 

The  drummer  picked  up  his  grip  and  made  his 
way  to  the  desk. 

"What's  the  matter,  Stevey?"  asked  Larry,  the 
clerk.  "You  look  sour." 

"Sour?  I  am  a  green  pickle,  Larry,  that's  what 
I  am — a  green  pickle.  Been  waiting  five  hours  for 
my  trunk  in  that  oriental  palm  garden  of  yours 
you  call  a  station.  It  was  aboard  a  Special  loaded 
with  chorus  girls  and  props.  Conductor  wouldn't 
dump  it,  and  now  it's  gone  on  to  Kalamazoo 
and " 

"Oh,  but  you'll  get  it  all  right.  All  you've  got  to 
do,  Steve,  is  to " 

"Get  it !  Yes,  when  the  daisies  are  blooming  over 
us.  I  want  it  now,  Larry.  Whenever  I  run  up 
against  anything  solid  it's  always  one  of  these  fly- 
by-nights.  What  do  you  think  of  going  upstairs 
in  the  dark  and  hauling  out  a  red  silk  hat  and  a 
pair  of  gilt  slippers,  instead  of  a  sample  card  of 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

carvers?  Well,  that's  what  a  guy  did  for  me  last 
fall  down  at  Logansport.  Sent  me  two  burial  caskets 
full  of  chorus-girl  props  instead  of  my  trunk.  Oh, 
yes,  I'll  get  it — get  it  in  the  neck.  Here,  send  this 
grip  to  my  room." 

The  clerk  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  over  his  key- 
rack.  He  knew  that  he  had  no  room — none  that 
would  suit  Stephen  Dodd — had  known  it  when 
he  saw  him  entering  the  door,  the  snow  covering 
his  hat  and  shoulders,  his  grip  in  his  hands. 

"Going  to  stay  all  night  with  us,  Stephen?" 
Larry  asked. 

"Sure!  What  do  you  think  I'm  here  for? 
Blowing  and  snowing  outside  fit  to  beat  the  band. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do — bunk  in  the 
station?" 

"H'm,  h'm,"  muttered  the  clerk,  studying  the 
key-rack  and  name-board  as  if  they  were  plans  of 
an  enemy's  country. 

Steve  looked  up.  When  a  clerk  began  to  say 
"H'm,"  Steve  knew  something  was  wrong. 

"Full?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  full,  Steve,  but— h'm— we've 
43 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

got  the  'Joe  Gridley  Combination'  with  us  over 
night,  and  about  everything " 

"Go  on — go  on — what'd  I  tell  you?  Up  ag'in 
these  fly -by-nights  as  usual!"  blurted  out  Steve. 

The  clerk  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"Sorry,  old  man.  Put  you  on  the  top  floor  with 
some  of  the  troupe — good  rooms,  of  course,  but 
not  what  I  like  to  give  you.  Leading  lady's  got 
your  room,  and  the  manager's  got  the  one  you 
sometimes  have  over  the  extension.  It'll  only  be  for 
to-night.  They're  going  away  in  the  morning,  and 
I " 

"Cut  it  out — cut  it  out — and  forget  it,"  inter 
rupted  Steve.  "So  am  I  going  away  in  the  morning. 
Got  to  take  the  5.40  and  hunt  up  that  trunk.  Can't 
do  a  thing  without  it.  Only  waltzed  in  here  to  get 
something  to  eat  and  a  bed.  Be  back  later.  Put  me 
anywhere.  This  week's  hoodooed,  and  these  show  . 
guys  are  doing  it.  You  want  a  guardian,  Stephen 
— a  gentle,  mild-eyed  little  guardian.  That's  what 
you  want." 

The  clerk  rang  a  gong  that  sounded  liKe  a  fire- 
alarm  and  the  porter  came  in  on  a  run. 

44 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

"Take  Mr.  Dodd's  grip  and  show  him  up  to 
Number  11." 

On  the  way  upstairs  Steve's  quick  eye  caught 
the  flare  of  a  play-bill  tacked  to  one  wall. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  of  the  porter,  pointing 
to  the  poster — "an  'East  Lynne'  or  a  'Mother's 
Curse'?" 

"No — one  o'  them  mix-ups,  I  guess.  Song  and 
dance  stunts.  Number  11,  did  Larry  say?  There  ye 
are — key's  in  the  lock."  And  the  porter  pushed 
open  the  door  of  the  room  with  his  foot,  dropped 
Steve's  bag  on  the  pine  table,  turned  up  the  gas — 
the  twilight  was  coming  on — asked  if  there  was 
"anything  more" — found  there  wasn't — not  even 
a  dime — and  left  Steve  in  possession. 

"  'Bout  as  big  as  a  coffin,  and  as  cold,"  grumbled 
Steve,  looking  around  the  room.  "No  steam-heat — 
one  pillow  and" — here  he  punched  the  bed — "one 
blanket,  and  thin  at  that — the  bed  hard  as  a — 
Well,  if  this  don't  take  the  cake !  If  this  burg  don't 
get  a  hotel  soon  I'll  cut  it  out  of  my  territory." 

Steve  washed  his  hands ;  wiped  them  on  a  14x20 
towel;  hung  it  flat,  that  it  might  dry  and  be  use- 

45 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

fill  in  the  morning,  gave  his  hair  a  slick  with  his 
comb,  scooped  up  a  dozen  cigars  from  a  paper  box, 
stuffed  them  in  his  outside  pocket,  relocked  his  grip, 
and  retraced  his  steps  downstairs. 

When  he  reached  the  play-bill  again  he  stopped 
for  particulars.  Condensed  and  pruned  of  inflam 
matory  adjectives,  the  gay-colored  document  con 
veyed  the  information  that  the  "Joe  Gridley 
Combination"  would  play  for  this  one  night,  per 
formance  beginning  at  8  P.M.,  sharp.  Molly  Martin 
and  Jessie  Hannibal  would  dance,  Jerry  Gobo,  the 
clown,  would  dislocate  the  ribs  of  the  audience  by 
his  mirth-provoking  sallies,  and  Miss  Pearl  Rogers 
of  International,  etc.,  etc.,  would  charm  them  by 
her  up-to-date  delineations  of  genteel  society.  Then 
followed  a  list  of  the  lesser  lights,  including  chorus 
girls,  clog  dancers,  and  acrobats. 

The  porter  was  now  shaking  the  red-hot  stove 
with  a  cast-iron  crank  the  size  and  shape  of  a 
burglar's  jimmy,  the  ashes  falling  on  a  square  of 
zinc  protecting  the  uncarpeted  floor.  Steve  rec 
ognized  the  noise,  and  looking  down  over  the  hand 
rail  called  out,  pointing  to  the  poster: 

46 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

"  How  far's  this  shebang?" 

"  'Bout  a  block." 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Steve  to  himself  in  the 
only  contented  tone  of  voice  he  had  used  since  he 
entered  the  hotel.  "I'll  take  this  in."  And  con 
tinuing  on  downstairs,  he  dropped  into  a  chair, 
completing  the  circle  around  the  dispenser  of  com 
fort. 

The  business  of  the  hotel  went  on.  Trains  arrived 
and  were  met  by  the  lumbering  stage,  the  pas 
sengers  landing  in  the  snow  on  the  sidewalk — some 
for  supper,  one  or  two  for  rooms. 

Supper  was  announced  by  a  tight-laced  blonde 
in  white  muslin,  all  hips  and  shoulders,  throwing 
open  the  dining-room  and  mounting  guard  at  the 
entrance,  her  face  illumined  by  that  knock-a-chip- 
off-my-shoulder  expression  common  to  her  class. 

Instantly,  and  with  a  simultaneous  scraping  of 
chair  legs,  the  segments  of  the  circle  around  the 
stove  flung  themselves  into  the  narrow  passageway. 

Soon  the  racks  were  spotted  with  hats,  their 
owners  being  drawn  up  in  fours  around  the  several 
tables — Steve  one  of  them — the  waiter-ladies  serv- 

47 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ing  with  a  sweetness  of  smile  and  elegance  of  man 
ner  found  nowhere  outside  of  a  royal  court,  accom 
panied  by  a  dignity  of  pose  made  all  the  more 
distinguished  by  a  certain  inward  scoop  of  the  back 
and  instantaneous  outward  bulge  below  the  waist 
line  seen  only  in  wax  figures  flanking  a  cloak 
counter. 

Steve  had  a  steak,  liver  and  bacon,  apple  pie,  a 
cup  of  coffee,  and  a  toothpick — all  in  ten  minutes. 
Then  he  resumed  his  place  by  the  stove,  lit  a  cigar, 
and  kept  his  eye  on  the  clock. 

Three  hours  later  Steve  was  again  in  his  chair  by 
the  stove.  He  had  been  to  the  show  and  had  sat 
through  two  hours  of  the  performance.  If  his  ex 
pression  had  savored  of  vinegar  over  the  loss  of  his 
sample  trunks,  it  was  now  double-proof  vitriol! 

"Thought  you  was  goin'  to  the  show,"  grunted 
the  porter  between  his  jerks  at  the  handle;  he  was 
again  at  the  stove,  the  thermometer  marking  zero 
outside. 

"Been.  Regular  frost ;  buncoed  out  of  fifty  cents ! 
That  show  is  the  limit !  A  couple  of  skinny-legged 

48 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

girls  doing  a  clog  stunt ;  a  bag  of  bones  in  a  low- 
necked  dress  playing  Mrs.  Langtry;  and  a  wall 
eyed  clown  that  looked  like  a  grave-digger.  Rot 
ten — worst  I  ever  saw !  " 

"Full  house?" 

"Full  of  empties.  'Bout  fifty  people,  I  guess, 
counting  deadheads — and  ME." 

Steve  accentuated  this  last  word  as  if  his  fifty 
cents  had  been  the  only  real  income  of  the  house. 

The  outer  door  now  opened,  letting  in  a  section 
of  the  north  pole  and  a  cough. 

Steve  twisted  around  in  his  chair  and  recognized 
Jerry  Gobo,  the  clown.  His  grease  paint  was  gone, 
but  his  haggard  features  and  the  graveyard  hack 
settled  his  identity. 

Jerry  loosened  the  collar  of  his  frayed,  almost 
threadbare  coat,  approached  the  stove  slowly,  and 
stretching  out  one  blue,  emaciated  hand,  warmed  it 
for  an  instant  at  its  open  door — in  an  apologetic 
way — as  if  the  warming  of  one  hand  was  all  that  he 
was  entitled  to. 

Steve  absorbed  him  at  a  glance.  He  saw  that  his 
neck  was  thin,  especially  behind  the  ears,  the  cords 

49 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

of  the  throat  showing ;  his  cheeks  sunken ;  the  sad, 
kindly  eyes  peering  out  at  him  furtively  from  under 
bushy  eyebrows,  bright  and  glassy ;  his  knees,  too, 
seemed  unsteady.  As  he  stood  warming  his  chilled 
fingers,  his  hand  and  arm  extended  toward  the  heat, 
his  body  drawn  back,  Steve  got  the  impression  of 
a  boy  reaching  out  for  an  apple,  and  ready  to  cut 
and  run  at  the  first  alarm. 

"Kind  o'  chilly,"  the  clown  ventured,  in  a  voice 
that  came  from  somewhere  below  his  collar-button. 

"Yes,"  said  Steve  gruffly.  He  didn't  intend  to 
start  any  conversation.  He  knew  these  fellows.  One 
had  done  him  out  of  eleven  dollars  in  a  ten-cent 
game  up  at  Logansport  the  winter  before.  That 
particular  galoot  didn't  have  a  cough,  but  he  would 
have  had  if  he  could  have  doubled  his  winnings 
by  it. 

Jerry,  rebuffed  by  Steve's  curt  reply,  brought 
up  the  other  hand,  toasted  it  for  an  instant  at  the 
kindly  blaze,  rubbed  the  two  sets  of  bony  knuckles 
together,  and  remarking — this  time  to  himself — 
that  he  "guessed  he'd  turn  in,"  walked  slowly  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  and  began  ascending  the  long 

50 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

flight,  his  progress  up  one  wall  and  half  around 
the  next  marked  by  his  fingers  sliding  along  the 
hand-rail.  Steve  noticed  that  the  bunched  knuckles 
stopped  at  the  first  landing  ( it  was  all  that  he  could 
see  from  where  he  sat) ,  and  after  a  spell  of  cough 
ing  slid  slowly  on  around  the  court. 

The  drummer  bit  off  the  end  of  a  fresh  cigar; 
scraped  a  match  on  the  under  side  of  his  chair  seat ; 
lit  the  domestic,  and  said  with  his  first  puff  of 
smoke,  his  mind  still  on  the  emaciated  form  of 
the  clown: 

"Kindlin'  wood  for  a  new  crematory." 

Again  the  outer  door  swung  open. 

This  time  the  Walking  Lady  entered,  accom 
panied  by  the  Business  Agent.  She  wore  a  long 
brown  cloak  that  came  to  her  feet  and  a  stringy  fur 
tippet,  her  head  and  face  covered  by  a  hat  con 
cealed  in  a  thick  blue  veil.  This  last  she  unwound 
inside  the  hall,  and  seeing  Steve  monopolizing  the 
stove,  began  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  one  step  at  a 
time,  as  if  she  was  tired  out. 

Steve  turned  his  face  away.  The  bag  of  bones 
looked  worse  than  ever.  "  'Bout  fifty  in  the  shade, 
51 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

I  should  think,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Ought  to  be 
taking  in  washing  and  ironing."  Meantime  Math- 
ews,  the  Business  Agent,  was  occupied  with  the 
clerk — Larry  had  presented  him  with  a  bill.  The 
rates,  the  agent  pleaded,  were  to  be  a  dollar-sixty. 
Larry  insisted  on  two  dollars.  Steve  pricked  up  his 
ears;  this  interested  him.  If  Larry  wanted  any 
backing  as  to  the  price  he  was  within  call.  This 
information  he  conveyed  to  Larry  by  lifting  his 
chin  and  slowly  closing  his  left  eye. 

The  outer  door  continued  its  vibrations  with  the 
rapidity  of  its  green-baize  namesake  leading  from 
the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen,  ushering  in  some 
member  of  the  troupe  with  every  swing,  including 
an  elderly  woman  who  had  played  the  Duchess  in 
the  first  act  and  a  fishwife  in  the  second;  some 
young  men  with  their  hats  over  their  noses,  and 
four  or  five  chorus  girls.  The  men  looked  around 
for  the  index  hand  showing  the  location  of  the  bar, 
and  the  girls,  after  a  fit  of  giggling,  began  the  as 
cent  of  the  stairs  to  their  rooms.  Steve  noticed  that 
two  of  them  continued  on  to  the  third  floor,  where 
Jerry  Gobo,  the  clown,  had  gone,  and  where  he  him- 

52 


Some  young  men     .     .     .     and  four  or  five  chorus  girls. 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

self  was  to  sleep.  One  of  the  girls  looked  down  at 
him  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  stairs  and 
nudged  her  companion — all  of  which  was  lost  on 
the  drummer.  They  had  probably  recognized  him  in 
the  audience. 

Nothing,  however,  in  their  present  make-up  could 
have  recalled  them  to  Steve's  memory.  Molly  Mar 
tin  had  exchanged  her  green  silk  tights  and  gauze 
wings  for  a  red  flannel  shirt-waist,  a  black  leather 
belt,  blue  skirt,  and  cat-skin  jacket.  And  Jessie 
Hannibal  had  shed  her  frou-frou  frills  and  was 
buttoned  to  her  red  ears  in  a  long  gray  ulster  that 
reached  down  to  her  active  little  feet,  now  muffled  in 
a  pair  of  galoshes. 

The  dispute  over  the  bill  at  an  end,  the  Business 
Agent  fished  up  a  roll  from  one  pocket  and  a  hand 
ful  of  silver  and  copper  coins  from  the  other, 
counted  out  the  exact  amount,  waited  until  the  clerk 
marked  a  cross  against  his  room  number,  calling 
him  at  seven  o'clock  A.M.,  tucked  the  receipt  in  his 
inside  pocket,  and  began  the  weary  ascent. 

Steve  shook  himself  free  from  the  chair.  This 
was  about  his  hour.  Rising  to  his  legs,  he  elongated 

53 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

one  side  of  his  round  body  with  his  pudgy  arm, 
and  then  the  other,  yawned  sleepily,  tipped  his  hat 
farther  over  his  eyebrows,  called  to  Larry  to  be 
sure  and  put  him  down  for  the  5.40,  and  mounted 
the  stairs  to  his  room.  If  he  had  had  any  doubts 
as  to  the  fraudulent  character  of  the  whole  "shoot 
ing  match,"  his  chance  inspection  of  the  caste  had 
removed  them. 

On  entering  his  room  Steve  made  several  discov 
eries,  no  one  of  which  relieved  his  gloom  or  sweet 
ened  the  acidity  of  his  mind. 

First,  that  the  temperature  was  so  far  below  that 
of  a  Pullman  that  the  water-pitcher  was  skimmed 
with  ice  and  the  towel  frozen  as  stiff  as  a  dried  cod 
fish.  Second,  that  Jerry,  the  clown,  occupied  the 
room  to  the  right,  and  the  two  coryphees  the  room 
to  the  left.  Third,  that  the  partitions  were  thin  as 
paper,  or,  as  Steve  expressed  it,  "thin  enough  to 
hear  a  feller  change  his  mind." 

With  the  turning-off  of  the  gas  and  the  tucking 
of  Steve's  fat  round  face  and  head  under  the  single 
blanket  and  quilt,  the  sheet  gripped  about  his  chin, 
there  came  a  harsh,  rasping  cough  from  the  room 

54 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

on  his  right.  Jerry  had  opened.  Steve  ducked  his 
head  and  covered  his  ears.  The  clown  would  stop  in 
a  minute,  and  then  Mr.  Dodd  would  drop  off  to 
sleep. 

Another  sound  now  struck  his  ear — a  woman's 
voice  this  time,  with  a  note  of  sympathy  in  it. 
Steve  raised  his  head  and  listened. 

"Say,  Jess,  ain't  that  awTful?  I  knew  Jerry'd  get 
it  on  that  long  jump  we  made.  I  ain't  heard  him 
cough  like  that  since  we  left  T'ronto." 

"Oh,  dreadful !  And,  Molly,  he  don't  say  a  word 
'bout  how  sick  he  is.  Billy  had  to  help  him  off  with 
his —  Oh,  just  hear  Jerry!" 

The  talk  ceased  and  Steve  snuggled  his  head 
again.  He  wasn't  interested  in  Jerry,  or  Molly, 
or  Jessie.  What  he  wanted  was  six  hours'  sleep,  a 
call  at  4.45,  and  his  sample  trunk. 

Another  paroxysm  of  coughing  resounded 
through  the  partition,  and  again  Steve  freed  his 
ear. 

"Jerry  ain't  got  but  one  little  girl  left,  and  she's 
only  five  years  old.  She's  up  to  the  Sacred  Heart  in 
Montreal.  He  sends  her  money  every  week — he  told 

55 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

me  so.  He  showed  me  her  picture  oncet.  Say !  give 
me  some  of  the  cover;  it's  awful  cold,  ain't  it?" 

Steve  heard  a  rustling  and  tumbling  of  the  bed 
clothes  as  the  girls  nestled  the  closer.  Molly's  voice 
now  broke  the  short  silence. 

"Say,  Jess,  I'm  dreadful  worried  'bout  Jerry. 
I  bet  he  ain't  got  no  more  cover  'n  we  have.  He's 
right  next  to  us,  and  'tain't  no  warmer  where  he 
is  than  it  is  here.  I'd  think  he'd  tear  himself  all  to 
pieces  with  that  cough.  I  hope  nothin'  '11  happen  to 
him.  He  ain't  like  Ma  thews.  Nobody  ever  heard  a 
cross  word  out  of  Jerry,  and  he'd  cut  his  heart  out 
for  ye  and ' 

Steve  covered  his  head  again  and  shut  his  eyes. 
Through  the  coarse  cotton  sheet  he  caught,  as  he 
dozed  off  to  sleep  (Jerry's  cough  had  now  become 
a  familiar  sound,  and  therefore  no  longer  an  in 
centive  to  insomnia),  additional  details  of  Jerry's 
life,  fortunes  and  misfortunes,  in  such  broken  sen 
tences  as — 

"She  never  cared  for  him,  so  Billy  told  me.  She 
went  off  with —  Why,  sure!  didn't  you  know  he 
got  burnt  out? — lost  his  trick  ponies  when  he  was 

56 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

with  Forepaugh —  It'll  be  awful  if  we  have  to 
leave  him  behind,  and —  I'm  goin'  to  see  a  doctor 

just  as  soon  as  we  get  to " 

Here  Steve  fell  into  oblivion. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  startled  by  the  opening 
of  his  door.  In  the  dim  glow  of  the  hall  gas-jet 
showing  through  the  crack  and  the  transom,  his 
eyes  caught  the  outline  of  a  girl  in  her  night-dress, 
her  hair  in  two  braids  down  her  neck.  She  was  step 
ping  noiselessly  and  approaching  his  bed.  In  her 
hand  she  carried  a  quilt.  Bending  above  him — 
Steve  lying  in  the  shadow — she  spread  the  cover 
ing  gently  over  his  body,  tucked  the  end  softly 
about  his  throat,  and  as  gently  tiptoed  out  of  the 
room.  Then  there  came  a  voice  from  the  other  side 
of  the  partition : 

"He  ain't  coughin'  any  more — he's  asleep.  I  got 
it  over  him.  Now  get  all  your  clo'es,  Molly,  and  pile 
"em  on  top.  We  can  get  along." 

Steve  lay  still.  His  first  impulse  was  to  cry  out 
that  they  had  made  a  mistake — that  Jerry  was  next 
door;  his  next  was  to  slip  into  Jerry's  room  and 

57 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

pile  the  quilt  on  him.  Then  he  checked  himself — the 
first  would  alarm  and  mortify  the  girls,  and  the 
second  would  be  like  robbing  them  of  the  credit  of 
their  generous  act.  Jerry  might  wake  and  the  girls 
would  hear,  and  explanations  follow  and  all  the 
pleasure  of  their  sacrifice  be  spoiled.  No,  he'd  hand 
it  back  to  the  girls,  and  say  he  was  much  obliged 
but  he  didn't  need  it.  Again  he  stopped — this  time 
with  a  sudden  pull-up.  Going  into  a  chorus  girl's 
room,  under  any  pretence  whatever,  in  a  hotel  at 
night!  No,  sir-ee,  Bob!  Not  for  Stephen!  He  had 
been  there ;  none  of  that  in  his ! 

All  this  time  the  quilt  was  choking  him — his 
breath  getting  shorter  every  minute,  as  if  he  was 
being  slowly  smothered.  A  peculiar  hotness  began 
to  creep  over  the  skin  of  his  throat  and  a  small  lump 
to  rise  near  his  Adam's  apple,  followed  by  a  slight 
moistening  of  the  eyes — all  new  symptoms  to 
Steve,  new  since  his  boyhood. 

Suddenly  there  flashed  into  his  mind  the  picture 
of  a  low-roofed  garret  room,  sheltering  a  trundle- 
bed  tucked  away  under  the  slant  of  the  shingles. 
In  the  dim  light  where  he  lay  he  caught  the  square 

58 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 
of  the  small  window,  the  gaunt  limbs  of  the  butter 
nut  beyond,  and  could  hear,  as  he  listened,  the  creak 
of  its  branches  bending  in  the  storm.  All  about  were 
old-fashioned  things — a  bureau  with  brass  handles ; 
a  spinning-wheel;  ropes  of  onions;  a  shelf  of 
apples  ;  an  old  saddle ;  and  a  rocking-chair  with  one 
arm  gone  and  the  bottom  half  out.  A  soft  tread  was 
heard  upon  the  stairs,  a  white  figure  stole  in,  and  a 
warm  hand  nestling  close  to  his  cheeks  tucked  the 
border  of  a  quilt  under  his  chin.  Then  came  a  voice. 
"I  thought  you  might  be  cold,  son." 

With  a  bound  Steve  sprang  from  the  bed. 

For  an  instant  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  hard 
mattress,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  deep  thought. 

"Those  two  girls  lying  there  freezing,  and  all 
to  get  that  feller  warm !"  he  muttered.  "You're  a 
dog,  Stephen  Dodd — that's  what  you  are — a  yel 
low  dog!" 

Reaching  out  noiselessly  for  his  shoes  and  socks, 
he  drew  them  toward  him,  slipped  in  his  feet, 
dragged  on  his  trousers  and  shirt,  threw  his  coat 
around  his  shoulders — he  was  beginning  to  shiver 
now — opened  the  door  of  his  room  cautiously,  let- 
59 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ting  in  more  of  the  glow  of  the  gas-jet,  and  stole 
down  the  corridor  to  the  staircase.  Here  he  looked 
into  a  black  gulf.  The  only  lights  were  the  one  by 
the  clerk's  desk  and  the  glow  of  the  stove.  Quicken 
ing  his  steps,  he  descended  the  stairs  to  the  lower 
floor.  The  porter  would  be  up,  he  said  to  himself,  or 
the  night  watchman,  or  perhaps  the  clerk;  some 
body,  anyway,  would  be  around.  He  looked  over  the 
counter,  expecting  to  find  Larry  in  his  chair ;  passed 
out  to  the  porter's  room  and  studied  the  trunks  and 
boot-stand;  peered  behind  the  screen,  and  finding 
no  one,  made  a  tour  of  the  floor,  opening  and 
shutting  doors.  No  one  was  awake. 

Then  a  new  thought  struck  him.  This  came  with 
a  thumping  of  one  fist  in  the  palm  of  the  other 
hand,  his  face  breaking  out  into  a  satisfied  smile  at 
his  discovery.  He  remounted  the  stairs — the  first 
flight  two  steps  at  a  time,  the  second  flight  one  step 
at  a  time,  the  last  few  levels  on  his  toes.  If  he  had 
intended  to  burglarize  one  of  the  rooms  he  could 
not  have  been  more  careful  about  making  a  noise. 
Entering  his  own  apartment,  he  picked  up  the  quilt 
the  girls  had  spread  over  him,  folded  it  carefully 

60 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

and  laid  it  on  the  floor.  Then  he  stripped  off  his 
own  blanket  and  quilt  and  placed  them  beside  it. 
These  two  packages  he  tucked  under  his  arm,  and 
with  the  tread  of  a  cat  crept  down  the  corridor  to 
the  stairway.  Once  there,  he  wheeled  and  with  both 
heels  striking  the  bare  floor  came  tramping  toward 
the  girls'  room. 

Next  came  a  rap  like  a  five-o'clock  call — low,  so 
as  not  to  wake  the  more  fortunate  in  the  adjoining 
rooms,  but  sure  and  positive.  Steve  knew  how  it 
sounded. 

"Who's  there  ? "  cried  Molly  in  a  voice  that 
showed  that  Steve's  knuckles  had  brought  her  to 
consciousness.  "  'Tain't  time  to  get  up,  is  it?" 

"No,  I'm  the  night  watchman ;  some  of  the  folks 
is  complaining  of  the  cold  and  saying  there  warn't 
covering  enough,  and  so  I  thought  you  ladies  might 
want  some  more  bedclothes,"  and  Steve  squeezed 
the  quilt  in  through  the  crack  of  the  door. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  began  Molly;  "we  were  sort 


"Don't  mention  it,"  answered  Steve,  closing  the 
door  tight  and  shutting  off  any  further  remark. 
61 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

The  heels  were  lifted  now,  and  Steve  crept  to 
Jerry's  door  on  his  toes.  For  an  instant  he  listened 
intently  until  he  caught  the  sound  of  the  labored 
breathing  of  the  sleeping  man,  opened  the  door 
gently,  laid  the  blanket  and  quilt  he  had  taken 
from  his  own  bed  over  Jerry's  emaciated  shoulders, 
and  crept  out  again,  dodging  into  his  own  room 
with  the  same  sort  of  relief  in  his  heart  that  a  sneak 
thief  feels  after  a  successful  raid.  Here  he  finished 
dressing. 

Catching  up  his  grip,  he  moved  back  his  door, 
peered  out  to  be  sure  he  was  not  being  watched,  and 
tiptoed  along  the  corridor  and  so  on  to  the  floor 
below. 

An  hour  later  the  porter,  aroused  by  his  alarm 
clock  to  get  ready  for  the  5.40,  found  Steve  by  the 
stove.  He  had  dragged  up  another  chair  and 
lay  stretched  out  on  the  two,  his  head  lost  in  the 
upturned  collar  of  his  coat,  his  slouch  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  eyes. 

"Why,  I  thought  you'd  turned  in,"  yawned  the 
porter,  dumping  a  shovelful  of  coal  into  the  stove. 

62 


AN    EXTRA    BLANKET 

"Yes,  I  did,  but  I  couldn't  sleep."  There  was  a 
note  in  Steve's  voice  that  made  the  porter  raise  his 
eyes. 

"Ain't  sick,  are  ye?" 

"No — kind  o'  nervous — get  that  way  sometimes. 
Not  in  your  way,  am  I?" 


A    MEDAL     OF     HONOR 


A    MEDAL     OF     HONOR 

XX E  was  short  and  thick-set:  round-bodied — a 
bulbous  round,  like  an  onion — with  alternate  layers 
of  waistcoats,  two  generally,  the  under  one  of 
cotton  duck  showing  a  selvage  of  w^hite,  and  the 
outer  one  of  velvet  or  cloth  showing  a  pattern  of 
dots,  stripes,  or  checks,  depending  on  the  prevailing 
style  at  the  wholesale  clothier's  where  he  traded,  the 
whole  topped  by  a  sprouting  green  necktie.  Out 
side  this  waistcoat  drooped  a  heavy  gold  chain  con 
necting  with  a  biscuit-shaped  watch,  the  under 
convex  of  its  lid  emblazoned  with  his  monogram  in 
high  relief,  and  the  upper  concave  decorated  with  a 
photograph  of  his  best  girl. 

The  face  of  this  inviting  and  correctly  attired 
young  gentleman  was  likewise  round;  the  ends  of 
the  mouth  curving  upward,  not  downward — up 
ward,  with  a  continuous  smile  in  each  corner,  even 

67 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

when  the  mouth  was  shut,  as  if  the  laugh  inside 
of  him  were  still  tickling  his  funny-bone  and  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  were  recording  the  vibrations. 
These  uncontrollable  movements  connected  with 
other  hilarious  wriggles  puckering  with  merriment 
under  the  pupils  of  his  two  keen,  searching  eyes, 
bright  as  the  lens  of  a  camera  and  as  sensitive  and 
absorbing. 

Nothing  escaped  these  eyes — nothing  that  was 
worth  wasting  a  plate  on.  Men  and  their  uses, 
women  and  their  needs,  fellow-travellers  with  de 
sirable  information  who  were  cutting  into  the 
bulbous-shaped  man's  territory,  were  all  focussed 
by  these  eyes  and  deluded  by  this  mouth  into 
giving  up  their  best  cash  discounts  and  any  other 
information  needed.  Some  hayseeds  might  get  left, 
but  not  Sam  Makin. 

"Well,  I  guess  not !  No  flies  on  Samuel !  Up  and 
dressed  every  minute  and  'next'  every  time !"  Such 
was  the  universal  tribute. 

This  knowledge  did  not  end  with  humans.  Sam 
knew  the  best  train  out  and  in,  and  the  best  seat  in 
it;  the  best  hotel  in  town  and  the  best  table  in  the 

68 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

dining-room,  as  well  as  the  best  dish  on  the  bill  of 
fare — not  of  one  town,  but  of  hundreds  all  over  his 
territory.  That  is  what  he  paid  for,  and  that  was 
what  he  intended  to  have. 

When  Sam  was  on  the  road,  in  addition  to  his 
grip — which  held  a  change  of  waistcoats  (Sam 
did  his  finest  work  with  a  waistcoat),  some 
collars  and  a  couple  of  shirts,  one  to  wash  and  the 
other  to  wear,  a  tooth-brush  and  a  comb — he  held 
the  brass  checks  of  four  huge  trunks  made  of 
rawhide  and  strapped  and  cornered  with  iron. 
These  went  by  weight  and  were  paid  for  at  schedule 
prices.  When  a  baggage-master  overweighed  these 
trunks  an  ounce  and  charged  accordingly  there 
came  an  uncomfortable  moment  and  an  interchange 
of  opinions,  followed  by  an  apology  and  a  deduc 
tion,  Sam  standing  by.  Only  on  occasions  like  these 
did  the  smiles  disappear  from  the  corners  of  Sam's 
mouth. 

Whenever  these  ironclads,  however,  were  elevated 
to  the  upper  floor  of  a  hotel,  and  Sam  began  to 
make  himself  at  home,  the  wriggles  playing  around 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  extended  quite  up  his  smil- 

69 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ing  cheeks  with  the  movement  of  little  lizards 
darting  over  a  warm  stone. 

And  his  own  welcome  from  everybody  in  the 
house  was  quite  as  cordial  and  hilarious. 

"Hello,  Sam,  old  man!  Number  31's  all  ready- — 
mail's  on  your  bureau."  This  from  the  clerk. 

"Oh!  is  it  you  ag'in,  Mister  Sam?  Oh — go  'long 
wid  ye !  Now  stop  that !"  This  from  the  chamber 
maid. 

"It's  good  to  git  a  look  at  ye !  And  them  box-cars 
o'  yourn  ain't  no  bird-cages!  Yes,  sir — thank  ye, 
sir."  This  from  the  porter. 

But  it  was  when  the  trunks  were  opened  and  their 
contents  spread  out  on  the  portable  and  double-up- 
able  pine  tables,  and  Bullock  &  Sons'  (of  Spring 
Falls,  Mass.)  latest  and  best  assortment  of  domestic 
cutlery  was  exposed  to  view,  and  the  room  became 
crowded  with  Sam's  customers,  that  the  smile  on 
his  face  became  a  veritable  coruscation  of  wriggles 
and  darts;  scurrying  around  his  lips,  racing  in 
circles  from  his  nose  to  his  ears,  tumbling  over 
each  other  around  the  corners  of  his  pupils  and 
beneath  the  lids ;  Sam  talking  all  the  time,  the  keen 

70 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

eyes  boring,  or  taking  impressions,  the  sales  increas 
ing  every  moment. 

When  the  last  man  was  bowed  out  and  the 
hatches  of  the  ironclads  were  again  shut,  anyone 
could  see  that  Sam  had  skimmed  the  cream  of  the 
town.  The  hayseeds  might  have  what  was  left.  Then 
he  would  go  downstairs,  square  himself  before  a 
long,  sloping  desk,  open  a  non-stealable  inkstand, 
turn  on  an  electric  light,  sift  out  half  a  dozen  sheets 
of  hotel  paper,  and  tell  Bullock  &  Sons  all  about  it. 

On  this  trip  Sam's  ironclads  were  not  wide  open 
on  a  hotel  table,  but  tight-locked  aboard  a  Fall 
River  steamer.  Sam  uad  a  customer  in  Fall  River, 
good  for  fifty  dozen  of  B.  &  S.'s  No.  18  scissors,  $9 
— 10  per  cent,  off  and  5  more  for  cash.  The  iron 
clads  had  been  delivered  on  the  boat  by  the  transfer 
company.  Sam  had  taken  a  street-car.  There  was 
a  block,  half  an  hour's  delay,  and  Sam  arrived  on 
the  string-piece  as  the  gangplank  was  being  hauled 
aboard. 

"Look  out,  young  feller!"  said  the  wharf  man; 
"you're  left." 

71 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Look  again,  you  Su-markee !"  (nobody  knows 
what  Sam  means  by  this  epithet),  and  the  drummer 
threw  his  leg  over  the  rail  of  the  slowly  moving 
steamer  and  dropped  on  her  deck  as  noiselessly  as 
a  cat.  This  done,  he  lifted  a  cigar  from  a  bunch 
stuffed  in  the  outside  pocket  of  the  prevailing  waist 
coat,  bit  off  the  end,  swept  a  match  along  the  seam 
of  his  "pants"  (Sam's  own),  lit  the  end  of  the 
domestic,  blew  a  ring  toward  the  fast-disappearing 
wharf  man,  and  turned  to  get  his  ticket  and  state 
room,  neither  of  which  had  he  secured. 

Just  here  Mr.  Samuel  Makin,  of  Bullock  &  Sons, 
manufacturers,  etc.,  etc.,  received  a  slight  shock. 

There  was  a  ticket-office  and  a  clerk,  and  a  rack 
of  state-room  keys,  just  as  Sam  had  expected,  but 
there  was  also  a  cue  of  passengers — a  long,  winding 
snake  of  a  cue  beginning  at  the  window  framing 
the  clerk's  face  and  ending  on  the  upper  deck.  This 
crawling  line  of  expectants  was  of  an  almost  uni 
form  color,  so  far  as  hats  were  concerned — most 
of  them  dark  blue  and  all  of  them  banded  about 
with  a  gold  cord  and  acorns.  The  shoulders  varied 
a  little,  showing  a  shoulder-strap  here  and  there, 
72 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

and  once  in  a  while  the  top  of  a  medal  pinned  to 
a  breast  pressed  tight  against  some  comrade's  back. 
Lower  down,  whenever  the  snake  parted  for  an  in 
stant,  could  be  seen  an  armless  sleeve  and  a  pair  of 
crutches.  As  the  head  of  this  cue  reached  the  win 
dow  a  key  was  passed  out  and  the  fortunate  owner 
broke  away,  the  coveted  prize  in  his  hand,  and 
another  expectant  took  his  place. 

Sam  watched  the  line  for  a  moment  and  then 
turned  to  a  by-stander: 

"What's  going  on  here? — a  camp-meeting?" 

"No.  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic — going  to 
Boston  for  two  days.  Ain't  been  a  berth  aboard 
here  for  a  week.  Sofas  are  going  at  two  dollars, 
and  pillows  at  seventy-five  cents." 

Sam's  mind  reverted  for  a  moment  to  the  look 
on  the  wharfman's  face,  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  began  to  play.  He  edged  nearer  to  the  win 
dow  and  caught  the  clerk's  eye. 

"No  hurry,  Billy,"  and  Sam  winked,  and  all  the 
lizards  darted  out  and  began  racing  around  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  "  'Tend  to  these  gents  first — 
I'll  call  later.  Number  15,  ain't  it?" 
73 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

The  clerk  moved  the  upper  lid  of  his  left  eye  a 
hair's  breadth,  took  a  key  from  the  rack  and  slipped 
it  under  a  pile  of  papers  on  his  desk. 

Sam  caught  the  vibration  of  the  lid,  tilted  his 
domestic  at  a  higher  angle,  and  went  out  to  view 
the  harbor  and  the  Statue  of  Liberty  and  the 
bridge — any  old  thing  that  pleased  him.  Then  this 
expression  slipped  from  between  his  lips : 

"That  was  one  on  the  hayseeds !  Cold  day  when 
you're  left,  Samuel!" 

When  supper-time  arrived  the  crowd  was  so  great 
that  checks  were  issued  for  two  tables,  an  hour 
apart.  When  the  captain  of  the  boat  and  the  rank 
ing  officer  of  the  G.  A.  R.  filed  in,  followed  by  a 
hungry  mob,  a  lone  man  was  discovered  seated  at  a 
table  nearest  the  galley  where  the  dishes  were 
hottest  and  best  served.  It  was  Sam.  He  had  come  in 
through  the  pantry,  and  the  head  steward — Sam 
had  known  him  for  years,  nearly  as  long  as  he  had 
known  the  clerk — had  attended  to  the  other  de 
tails,  one  of  which  was  a  dish  of  soft-shell  crabs, 
only  enough  for  half  a  dozen  passengers,  and 
which  toothsome  viands  the  head  steward  scratched 

74 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

off  the  bill  of  fare  the  moment  they  had  been 
swallowed. 

That  night  Sam  sat  up  on  deck  until  the  moon 
rose  over  Middle  Ground  Light,  talking  shop  to 
another  drummer,  and  then  he  started  for  state 
room  Number  15  with  an  upper  and  lower  berth 
(both  Sam's),  including  a  set  of  curtains  for  each 
berth — a  chair,  a  washbowl,  life-preserver,  and 
swinging  light.  On  his  way  to  this  Oriental  boudoir 
he  passed  through  the  saloon.  It  was  occupied  by 
a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  human  beings — men, 
women  and  children  in  all  positions  of  discomfort 
— some  sprawled  out  on  the  stationary  sofas,  some 
flat  on  the  carpet,  their  backs  to  the  panelling; 
others  nodding  on  the  staircase,  determined  to  sit  it 
out  until  daylight.  On  the  deck  below,  close  against 
the  woodwork,  rolled  up  in  their  coats,  was  here  and 
there  a  veteran.  They  had  slept  that  way  many  a 
time  in  the  old  days  with  the  dull  sound  of  a  dis 
tant  battery  lulling  them  to  sleep — they  rather 
liked  it. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  crowd  swarmed  out 
to  board  the  train  at  Fall  River,  Sam  tarried  a 

75 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

moment  at  the  now  deserted  ticket-office,  smiled 
blandly  at  Billy,  and  laid  a  greenback  on  the 
sill. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man,  with  my  holding 
on  to  Number  15  till  I  come  back?  This  boat  goes 
back  to  New  York  day  after  to-morrow,  doesn't 
she?" 

Billy  nodded,  picked  up  a  lead-pencil  and  put  a 
cross  against  Number  15 ;  then  he  handed  Sam  back 
his  change  and  the  key. 

All  that  day  in  Fall  River  Sam  sold  cutlery,  the 
ironclads  doing  service.  The  next  day  he  went  to 
Boston  on  a  later  train  than  the  crowd,  and  had 
almost  a  whole  car  to  himself.  The  third  day  he 
returned  to  Fall  River  an  hour  ahead  of  the 
special  train  carrying  the  Grand  Army,  and  again 
with  half  the  car  to  himself.  When  the  special 
rolled  into  the  depot  and  was  shunted  on  to  the 
steamboat  dock,  it  looked,  in  perspective  from 
where  Sam  stood,  like  a  tenement-house  on  a  hot 
Sunday — every  window  and  door  stuffed  with 
heads,  arms,  and  legs. 

Sam  studied  the  mob  for  a  few  minutes,  felt  in  his 
76 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

"pants"  pocket  for  his  key,  gave  it  one  or  two  lov 
ing  pats  with  his  fingers,  and  took  a  turn  up  the 
dock  where  it  was  cooler  and  where  the  human 
avalanche  wouldn't  run  over  him. 

When  the  tenement-house  was  at  last  unloaded, 
it  was  discovered  that  it  had  contained  twice  as 
many  people  as  had  filled  it  two  days  before.  They 
had  gone  to  Boston  by  different  lines,  and  being 
now  tired  out  and  penniless  were  returning  home 
by  the  cheapest  and  most  comfortable  route.  They 
wanted  the  salt  zephyrs  of  the  sea  to  fan  them 
to  sleep,  and  the  fish  and  clams  and  other  marine 
delicacies  so  lavishly  served  on  the  Fall  River  Line 
as  a  tonic  for  their  depleted  systems. 

Not  the  eager,  expectant  crowd  that  with  band 
playing  and  flags  flying  had  swept  out  of  the  depot 
the  day  of  the  advance  on  Boston !  Not  that  kind 
of  a  crowd  at  all,  but  a  bedraggled,  forlorn, 
utterly  exhausted  and  worn-out  crowd;  children 
crying,  and  pulled  along  by  one  arm  or  hugged  to 
perspiring  breasts ;  uniforms  yellow  with  dust ;  men 
struggling  to  keep  the  surging  mass  from  wives 
who  had  hardly  strength  left  for  another  step; 

77 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

flags  furled;  bass  drum  with  a  hole  in  it;  band 
silent. 

Sam  looked  on  and  again  patted  his  key.  The 
hayseeds  had  aired  their  collars  and  had  "got  it  in 
the  neck."  No  G.  A.  R.  for  Samuel ;  no  excursions, 
no  celebrations,  no  picnics  for  him.  He  had  all  his 
teeth,  and  an  extra  wisdom  molar  for  Sundays. 

The  contents  of  the  tenement  now  began  to  press 
through  the  closed  shed  on  their  way  to  the  gang 
plank,  and  Sam,  realizing  the  size  of  the  mob,  and 
fearing  that  half  of  them,  including  himself,  would 
be  left  on  the  dock,  slipped  into  the  current  and  was 
swept  over  the  temporary  bridge,  across  the  deck 
and  up  the  main  staircase  leading  to  the  saloon — up 
to  the  top  step. 

Here  the  current  stopped. 

Ahead  of  him  was  a  solid  mass,  and  behind  him 
a  pressure  that  increased  every  moment  and  that 
threatened  to  push  him  off  his  feet.  He  could  get 
neither  forward  nor  back. 

A  number  of  other  people  were  in  the  same  pre 
dicament.  One  was  a  young  woman  who,  in  sheer 
exhaustion,  had  seated  herself  upon  the  top  step 

78 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

level  with  the  floor  of  the  saloon.  Her  hair  was  di 
shevelled,  her  bonnet  awry,  her  pretty  silk  cape  cov 
ered  with  dust.  On  her  lap  lay  a  boy  of  five  years  of 
age.  Close  to  her — so  close  that  Sam's  shoulder 
pressed  against  his — stood  a  man  in  an  army  hat 
with  the  cord  and  acorn  encircling  the  crown.  On 
his  breast  was  pinned  a  medal.  Sam  was  so  close 
he  could  read  the  inscription :  "Fair  Oaks,"  it  said, 
and  then  followed  the  date  and  the  name  and  num 
ber  of  the  regiment.  Sam  knew  what  it  meant:  he 
had  had  an  uncle  who  went  to  the  war,  and  who 
wore  a  medal.  His  sword  hung  over  the  mantel  in 
his  mother's  sitting-room  at  home.  The  man  before 
him  had,  no  doubt,  been  equally  brave :  he  had  saved 
the  colors  the  day  of  the  fight,  perhaps,  or  had  car 
ried  a  wounded  comrade  out  of  range  of  a  rifle  pit, 
or  had  thrown  an  unexploded  shell  clear  of  a  tent — 
some  little  thing  like  that. 

Sam  had  never  seen  a  medal  that  close  before,  and 
his  keen  lens  absorbed  every  detail — the  ribbon,  the 
way  it  was  fastened  to  the  cloth,  the  broad,  strong 
chest  behind  it.  Then  he  looked  into  the  man's  firm, 
determined,  kindly  face  with  its  piercing  black  eyes 
79 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

and  closely  trimmed  mustache,  and  then  over  his 
back  and  legs.  He  was  wondering  now  where  the 
ball  had  struck  him,  and  what  particular  part  of 
his  person  had  been  sacrificed  in  earning  so  dis 
tinguishing  a  mark  of  his  country's  gratitude. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  woman,  and  a  slight  frown 
gathered  on  his  face  when  he  realized  that  she  alone 
had  blocked  his  way  to  the  open  air  and  the  deck 
beyond.  He  could  step  over  any  number  of  men 
whenever  the  mass  of  human  beings  crushing  his 
ribs  and  shoulder-blades  began  once  more  to  move, 
but  a  woman — a  tired  woman — with  a  boy — out 
on  a  jamboree  like  this,  with 

Here  Sam  stopped,  and  instinctively  felt  around 
among  his  loose  change  for  his  key.  Number  15  was 
all  right,  any  way. 

At  the  touch  of  the  key  Sam's  face  once  more 
resumed  its  contented  look,  the  lizards  darting  out 
to  play,  as  usual. 

The  boy  gave  a  sharp  cry. 

The  woman  put  her  hand  on  the  child's  head, 
smoothed  it  softly,  and  looked  up  in  the  face  of  the 
man  with  the  medal. 

80 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

"And  you  can  get  no  state-room,  George?"  she 
asked  in  a  plaintive  tone. 

"State-room,  Kitty !  Why,  we  couldn't  get  a  pil 
low.  I  tried  to  get  a  shake-down  some'ers,  but  half 
these  people  won't  get  six  feet  of  space  to  lie  down 
in,  let  alone  a  bed." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do. 
Freddie's  got  a  raging  fever ;  I  can't  hold  him  here 
in  my  arms  all  night." 

Sam  shifted  his  weight  to  the  other  foot  and 
concentrated  his  camera.  The  man  with  the  medal 
and  the  woman  with  the  boy  were  evidently  man  and 
wife.  Sam  had  no  little  Freddie  of  his  own — no 
Kitty,  in  fact — not  yet — no  home  really  that  he 
could  call  his  own — never  more  than  a  month  at 
a  time.  A  Pullman  lower  or  a  third  story  front  in  a 
three-dollar-a-day  hotel  was  often  his  bed,  and 
a  marble-top  table  with  iron  legs  screwed  to  the 
floor  of  a  railroad  restaurant  and  within  sound  of  a 
big-voiced  gateman  bawling  out  the  trains,  gen 
erally  his  board.  Freddie  looked  like  a  nice  boy, 
and  she  looked  like  a  nice  woman.  Man  was  O.  K., 
anyhow — didn't  give  medals  of  honor  to  any  other 

81 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

kind.  Both  of  them  fools,  though,  or  they  wouldn't 
have  brought  that  kid  out 

Again  the  child  turned  its  head  and  uttered  a 
faint  cry,  this  time  as  if  in  pain. 

Sam  freed  his  arm  from  the  hip  bone  of  the  pas 
senger  on  his  left,  and  said  in  a  sympathetic  voice — 
unusual  for  Sam: 

"Is  this  your  boy?"  The  drummer  was  not  a 
born  conversationalist  outside  of  trade  matters,  but 
he  had  to  begin  somewhere. 

"Yes,  sir."  The  woman  looked  up  and  a  flick 
ering  smile  broke  over  her  lips.  "Our  only  one, 
sir." 

"Sick,  ain't  he?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  got  a  high  fever." 

The  man  with  the  medal  now  wrenched  his  shoul 
der  loose  and  turned  half  round  toward  Sam.  Sam 
never  looked  so  jolly  nor  so  trustworthy :  the  lizards 
were  in  full  play  all  over  his  cheeks. 

"Freddie's  all  tired  out,  comrade.  I  didn't  want 
to  bring  him,  but  Kitty  begged  so.  It  was  crossing 
the  Common,  in  that  heat — your  company  must 
have  felt  it  when  you  come  along.  The  sun  beat 

82 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

down  terrible  on  Freddie — that's  what  used  him 
up." 

Sam  felt  a  glow  start  somewhere  near  his  heels, 
struggle  up  through  his  spinal  column  and  end  in 
his  fingers.  Being  called  "comrade"  by  a  man  with 
a  medal  on  his  chest  was,  somehow,  better  than  being 
mistaken  for  a  millionaire. 

"Can't  you  get  a  state-room?"  Sam  asked.  Of 
course  the  man  couldn't — he  had  heard  him  say  so. 
The  drummer  was  merely  sparring  for  time — try 
ing  to  adjust  himself  to  a  new  situation — one  rare 
with  him.  Meanwhile  the  key  of  Number  15  was 
turning  in  his  pocket  as  uneasily  as  a  grain  of 
corn  on  a  hot  shovel. 

The  man  shook  his  head  in  a  hopeless  way.  The 
woman  replied  in  his  stead — she,  too,  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  Sam's  smile. 

"No,  sir,  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  she  said  in  a 
choking  voice.  "If  we  only  had  a  pillow  we  could 
put  Freddie's  head  on  it  and  I  could  find  some  place 
where  he  might  be  comfortable.  I  don't  much  mind 
for  myself,  but  it's  dreadful  about  Freddie — "  and 
she  bent  her  head  over  the  child. 
83 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Sam  thought  of  the  upper  berth  in  Number  15 
with  two  pillows  and  the  lower  berth  with  two  more. 
By  this  time  the  key  of  Number  15  had  reached  a 
white  heat. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  help  out,"  Sam  blurted. 
"I've  got  a  state-room — got  two  berths  in  it. 
Just  suit  you,  come  to  think  of  it.  Here" — 
and  he  dragged  out  the  key — "Number  15 — main 
deck — you  can't  miss  it.  Put  the  kid  there  and 
bunk  in  yourselves — "  and  he  dropped  the  key  in 
the  woman's  lap,  his  voice  quivering,  a  lump  in 
his  throat  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg. 

"Oh,  sir,  we  couldn't !"  cried  the  woman. 

"No,  comrade,"  interrupted  the  man,  "we  can't 
do  that;  we " 

Sam  heard,  but  he  did  not  tarry.  With  one  of 
his  nimble  springs  he  lunged  through  the  crowd, 
his  big  fat  shoulders  breasting  the  mob,  wormed 
himself  out  into  the  air;  slipped  down  a  ladder  to 
the  deck  below,  interviewed  the  steward,  borrowed 
a  blanket  and  a  pillow  and  proceeded  to  hunt  up 
the  ironclads.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  he 
would  string  them  in  a  row,  spread  his  blanket  on 

84 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

top  and  roll  up  for  the  night.  Their  height  would 
keep  him  off  the  deck,  and  the  roof  above  them 
would  protect  him  from  the  weather  should  a  squall 
come  up. 

This  done,  he  drew  out  a  domestic  from  the  upper 
pocket,  bit  off  the  end,  slid  a  match  along  the  well- 
worn  seam  and  blew  a  ring  out  to  sea. 

"Couldn't  let  that  kid  sit  up  all  night,  you 
know,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Not  your  Uncle 
Joseph :  no  sir-ee — "  and  he  wedged  his  way  back 
to  the  deck  again. 

An  hour  later,  with  his  blanket  over  his  shoulder 
and  his  pillow  under  his  arm,  Sam  again  sought  his 
ironclads.  Steward,  chief  cook,  clerk — everything 
had  failed.  The  trunks  with  the  pillow  and  blanket 
were  all  that  was  left. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  now,  and  the  summer 
twilight  had  faded  and  only  the  steamer's  lanterns 
shone  on  the  heads  of  the  people.  As  he  passed 
the  companion-way  he  ran  into  a  man  in  an  army 
hat.  Backing  away  in  apology  he  caught  the  glint 
of  a  medal.  Then  came  a  familiar  voice: 

85 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Comrade,  where  you  been  keeping  yourself?  I've 
been  hunting  you  all  over  the  boat.  You're  the  man 
gave  me  the  key,  ain't  you  ?" 

"Sure!  How's  the  kid?  Is  he  all  right?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  you'd  find  that  up-to-date?  It's  a  cracker- 
jack,  that  room  is;  I've  had  it  before.  Tell  me, 
how's  the  kid  and  the  wife — kind  o'  comfy,  ain't 
they?" 

"Both  are  all  right.  Freddie's  in  the  lower  berth 
and  Kitty  sitting  by  him.  He's  asleep,  and  the 
fever's  going  down ;  ain't  near  so  hot  as  he  was. 
You're  white,  comrade,  all  the  way  through."  The 
man's  big  hand  closed  over  Sam's  in  a  warm  em 
brace.  "I  thank  you  for  it.  You  did  us  a  good  turn 
and  we  ain't  going  to  forget  you." 

Sam  kept  edging  away ;  what  hurt  him  most  was 
being  thanked. 

"But  that  ain't  what  I've  been  hunting  you  for, 
comrade,"  the  man  continued.  "You  didn't  get  a 
state-room,  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  Sam,  shaking  his  head  and  still  back 
ing  away.  "But  I'm  all  right — got  a  pillow  and  a 
blanket — see !"  and  he  held  them  up.  "You  needn't 

86 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

worry,  old  man.  This  ain't  nothing  to  the  way  I 
sleep  sometimes.  I'm  one  of  those  fellows  can  bunk 
in  anywhere."  Sam  was  now  in  sight  of  his  trunks. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man,  still  keeping  close  to 
Sam,  "that's  just  what  we  thought  would  happen; 
that's  what  does  worry  us,  and  worry  us  bad.  You 
ain't  going  to  bunk  in  anywhere — not  by  a  blamed 
sight!  Kitty  and  I  have  been  talking  it  over,  and 
what  Kitty  says  goes !  There's  two  bunks  in  that 
state-room ;  Kitty's  in  one  'longside  of  the  boy,  and 
you  got  to  sleep  in  the  other." 

"Me ! — well — but — why,  man !"  Sam's  astonish 
ment  took  his  breath  away. 

"  You  got  to !"  The  man  meant  it. 

"But  I  won't!"  said  Sam  in  a  determined  voice. 

"Well,  then,  out  goes  Kitty  and  the  boy !  You 
think  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  your  bunk,  and  have 
you  stretched  out  here  on  a  plank  some'ers!  No, 
sir!  You  got  to,  I  tell  you!" 

"Why,  see  here !"  Sam  was  floundering  about  now 
as  helplessly  as  if  he  had  been  thrown  overboard 
with  his  hands  tied. 

"There  ain't  no  seeing  about  it,  comrade."  The 
87 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

man  was  close  to  him  now,  his  eyes  boring  into 
Sam's  with  a  look  in  them  as  if  he  was  taking  aim. 

"You  say  I've  got  to  get  into  the  upper  berth?" 
asked  Sam  in  a  baffled  tone. 

"Yes." 

Sam  ruminated:  "When?" 

"When  Kitty  gets  to  bed." 

"How'll  I  know?" 

"I'll  come  for  you." 

"All  right— you'll  find  me  here." 

Then  Sam  turned  up  the  deck  muttering  to  him 
self  :  "That's  one  on  you,  Sam-u-e-1 — one  under  the 
chin-whisker.  Got  to — eh?  Well,  for  the  love  of 
Mike!" 

In  ten  minutes  Sam  heard  a  whistle  and  raised 
his  head.  The  man  with  the  medal  was  leaning  over 
the  rail  looking  down  at  him. 

Sam  mounted  the  steps  and  picked  his  way 
among  the  passengers  sprawled  over  the  floor  and 
deck.  The  man  advanced  to  meet  him,  smiled  con 
tentedly,  walked  along  the  corridor,  put  his  hand 
on  the  knob  of  the  door  of  Number  15,  opened  it 
noiselessly,  beckoned  silently,  waited  until  Sam  had 

88 


A    MEDAL    OF    HONOR 

stepped  over  the  threshold  and  closed  the  door 
upon  him.  Then  the  man  tiptoed  back  to  the 
saloon. 

Sam  looked  about  him.  The  curtains  of  the  lower 
berth  were  drawn;  the  curtains  of  the  upper  one 
were  wide  open.  On  a  chair  was  his  bag,  and  on  a 
hook  by  the  shuttered  window  the  cape  and  hat  of 
the  wife  and  the  clothes  of  the  sleeping  boy. 

At  the  sight  of  the  wee  jacket  and  little  half- 
breeches,  tiny  socks  and  cap,  Sam  stopped  short. 
He  had  never  before  slept  in  a  room  with  a  child, 
and  a  strange  feeling,  amounting  almost  to  awe, 
crept  over  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  stepped  sud 
denly  into  a  shrine  and  had  been  confronted  by 
the  altar.  The  low-turned  lamp  and  the  silence — 
no  sound  came  from  either  of  the  occupants — only 
added  to  the  force  of  the  impression. 

Sam  slipped  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  hung  the 
first  on  a  peg  and  laid  the  others  on  the  floor; 
loosened  his  collar,  mounted  the  chair,  drew  him 
self  stealthily  into  the  upper  berth ;  closed  the  cur 
tains  and  stretched  himself  out.  As  his  head 
touched  the  pillow  a  soft,  gentle,  rested  voice  said : 

89 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  we  are,  sir — good 
night." 

"Don't  mention  it,  ma'am,"  whispered  Sam  in 
answer;  "mighty  nice  of  you  to  let  me  come," 
and  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

At  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  Sam  woke  with  a 
start;  ran  his  eye  around  the  room  until  he  found 
his  bearings ;  drew  his  legs  together  from  the  cover 
let  ;  let  himself  down  as  stealthily  as  a  cat  walking 
over  teacups ;  picked  up  his  shoes,  slipped  his  arms 
into  his  coat,  gave  a  glance  at  the  closed  curtains 
sheltering  the  mother  and  child,  and  crossed  the 
room  on  his  way  to  the  door  with  the  tread  of  a 
burglar. 

Reaching  out  his  hand  in  the  dim  light  he  studied 
the  lock  for  an  instant,  settled  in  his  mind  which 
knob  to  turn  so  as  to  make  the  least  noise,  and 
swung  back  the  door. 

Outside  on  the  mat,  sound  asleep,  so  close  that 
he  almost  stepped  on  him,  lay  the  Man  with  the 
Medal. 


90 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

JLT  was  the  crush  hour  at  Sherry's.  A  steady 
stream  of  men  and  women  in  smart  toilettes — the 
smartest  the  town  afforded — had  flowed  in  under 
the  street  awning,  through  the  doorway  guarded 
by  flunkeys,  past  the  dressing-rooms  and  coat- 
racks,  and  were  now  banked  up  in  the  spacious  hall 
waiting  for  tables,  the  men  standing  about,  the 
women  resting  on  the  chairs  and  divans  listening  to 
the  music  of  the  Hungarian  band  or  chatting  with 
one  another.  The  two  cafes  were  full — had  been 
since  seven  o'clock,  every  table  being  occupied  ex 
cept  two.  One  of  these  had  been  reserved  that  morn 
ing  by  my  dear  friend  Marny,  the  distinguished 
painter  of  portraits — I  being  his  guest — and  the 
other,  so  the  head-waiter  told  us,  awaited  the  ar 
rival  of  Mr.  John  Stirling,  who  would  entertain  a 
party  of  six. 

93 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

When  Marny  was  a  poor  devil  of  an  illustrator, 
and  worked  for  the  funny  column  of  the  weekly 
papers — we  had  studios  in  the  same  building — we 
used  to  dine  at  Porcelli's,  the  price  of  the  two  meals 
equalling  the  value  of  one  American  trade  dollar, 
and  including  one  bottle  of  vin  ordinaire.  Now  that 
Marny  wears  a  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  has  a  suite 
of  rooms  that  look  like  a  museum,  man-servants  and 
maid-servants,  including  an  English  butler  whose 
principal  business  is  to  see  that  Marny  is  not  dis 
turbed,  a  line  of  carriages  before  his  door  on  his 
reception  days,  and  refuses  two  portraits  a  week 
at  his  own  prices — we  sometimes  dine  at  Sherry's. 

As  I  am  still  a  staid  old  landscape  painter  living 
up  three  flights  of  stairs  with  no  one  to  wait  on  me 
but  myself  and  the  ten-year-old  daughter  of  the 
janitor,  I  must  admit  that  these  occasional  forays 
into  the  whirl  of  fashionable  life  afford  me  not  only 
infinite  enjoyment,  but  add  greatly  to  my  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature. 

As  we  followed  the  waiter  into  the  cafe,  a  group 
of  half  a  dozen  men,  all  in  full  dress,  emerged  from 
a  side  room  and  preceded  us  into  the  restaurant,  led 
94 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

by  a  handsome  young  fellow  of  thirty.  The  next 
moment  they  grouped  themselves  about  the  other 
reserved  table,  the  young  fellow  seating  his  guests 
himself,  drawing  out  each  chair  with  some  remark 
that  kept  the  whole  party  laughing. 

When  we  had  settled  into  our  own  chairs,  and 
my  host  had  spread  his  napkin  and  looked  about 
him,  the  young  fellow  nodded  his  head  at  Marny, 
clasped  his  two  hands  together,  shook  them  together 
heartily,  and  followed  this  substitute  for  a  closer 
welcome  by  kissing  his  hand  at  him. 

Marny  returned  the  courtesy  by  a  similar  hand 
shake,  and  bending  his  head  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"The  Rajah  must  be  in  luck  to-night." 

"Who?"  I  asked.  My  acquaintance  with  foreign 
potentates  is  necessarily  limited. 

"The  Rajah— Jack  Stirling.  Take  a  look  at  him. 
You'll  never  see  his  match ;  nobody  has  yet." 

I  shifted  my  chair  a  little,  turned  my  head  in  the 
opposite  direction,  and  then  slowly  covering  Stir 
ling  with  my  gaze — the  polite  way  of  staring  at  a 
stranger — got  a  full  view  of  the  man's  face  and 
figure;  rather  a  difficult  thing  on  a  crowded  night 

95 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

at  Sherry's,  unless  the  tables  are  close  together. 
What  I  saw  was  a  well-built,  athletic-looking  young 
man  with  a  smooth-shaven  face,  laughing  eyes,  a 
Cupid  mouth,  curly  brown  hair,  and  a  fresh  ruddy 
complexion ;  a  Lord  Byron  sort  of  a  young  fellow 
with  a  modern  up-to-date  training.  He  was  evi 
dently  charming  his  guests,  for  every  man's  head 
was  bent  forward  seemingly  hanging  on  each 
word  that  fell  from  his  lips. 

"A  rajah,  is  he?  He  don't  look  like  an  Oriental." 

"He  isn't.  He  was  born  in  New  Jersey." 

"Is  he  an  artist?" 

"Yes,  five  or  six  different  kinds ;  he  draws  better 
than  I  do ;  plays  on  three  instruments,  and  speaks 
five  languages." 

"Rich?" 

"No— dead  broke  half  the  time." 

I  glanced  at  the  young  fellow's  faultless  appear 
ance  and  the  group  of  men  he  was  entertaining. 
My  eye  took  in  the  array  of  bottles,  the  number  of 
wineglasses  of  various  sizes,  and  the  mass  of  roses 
that  decorated  the  centre  of  the  table.  Such  ap 
pointments  and  accompaniments  are  not  generally 

96 


4 

THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

the  property  of  the  poor.  Then,  again,  I  remem 
bered  we  were  at  Sherry's. 

"What  does  he  do  for  a  living,  then?"  I  asked. 

"Do  for  a  living?  He  doesn't  do  anything  for  a 
living.  He's  a  purveyor  of  cheerfulness.  He  wakes 
up  every  morning  with  a  fresh  stock  of  happiness, 
more  than  he  can  use  himself,  and  he  trades  it  off 
during  the  day  for  anything  he  can  get." 

"What  kind  of  things  ?"  I  was  a  little  hazy  over 
Marny's  meaning. 

"Oh,  dinners — social,  of  course — board  bills, 
tailor's  bills,  invitations  to  country  houses,  voyages 
on  yachts — anything  that  comes  along  and  of 
which  he  may  be  in  need  at  the  time.  Most  interest 
ing  man  in  town.  Everybody  loves  him.  Known  all 
over  the  world.  If  a  fellow  gets  sick,  Stirling  waltzes 
in,  fires  out  the  nurse,  puts  on  a  linen  duster,  starts 
an  alcohol  lamp  for  gruel,  and  never  leaves  till  you 
are  out  again.  All  the  time  he  is  pumping  laughs 
into  you  and  bracing  you  up  so  that  you  get  well 
twice  as  quick.  Did  it  for  me  once  for  five  weeks  on 
a  stretch,  when  I  was  laid  up  in  my  studio  with  in 
flammatory  rheumatism,  with  my  grub  bills  hung 
97 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

up  in  the  restaurant  downstairs,  and  my  rent  three 
months  overdue.  Fed  me  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  too. 
Soup  from  Delmonico's,  birds  from  some  swell  house 
up  the  Avenue,  where  he  had  been  dining — sent  that 
same  night  with  the  compliments  of  his  hostess  with 
a  'Please  forgive  me,  but  dear  Mr.  Stirling  tells 
me  how  ill  you  have  been,  and  at  his  suggestion, 
and  with  every  sympathy  for  your  sufferings — 
please  accept.'  Oh,  I  tell  you  he's  a  daisy !" 

Here  a  laugh  sounded  from  Stirling's  table. 

"Who's  he  got  in  tow  now?"  I  asked,  as  my  eyes 
roamed  over  the  merry  party. 

"That  fat  fellow  in  eyeglasses  is  Crofield  the 
banker,  and  the  hatchet-faced  man  with  white 
whiskers  is  John  Riggs  from  Denver,  President  of 
the  C.  A. — worth  ten  millions.  I  don't  know  the 
others  —  some  bored-to-death  fellows,  perhaps, 
starving  for  a  laugh.  Jack  ought  to  go  slow,  for 
he's  dead  broke — told  me  so  yesterday." 

"Perhaps  Riggs  is  paying  for  the  dinner."  This 
was  an  impertinent  suggestion,  I  know ;  but  then 
sometimes  I  can  be  impertinent — especially  when 
some  of  my  pet  theories  have  to  be  defended. 

98 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

"Not  if  Jack  invited  him.  He's  the  last  man  in 
the  world  to  sponge  on  anybody.  Inviting  a  man  to 
dinner  and  leaving  his  pocketbook  in  his  other  coat 
is  not  Jack's  way.  If  he  hasn't  got  the  money  in 
his  own  clothes,  he'll  find  it  somehow,  but  not  in 
their  clothes." 

"Well,  but  at  times  he  must  have  ready  money," 
I  insisted.  "He  can't  be  living  on  credit  all  the 
time."  I  have  had  to  work  for  all  my  pennies,  am 
of  a  practical  turn  of  mind,  and  often  live  in  con 
stant  dread  of  the  first  of  every  month — that  fatal 
pay-day  from  which  there  is  no  escape.  The  success, 
therefore,  of  another  fellow  along  different  and 
more  luxurious  lines  naturally  irritates  me. 

"Yes,  now  and  then  he  does  need  money.  But 
that  never  bothers  Jack.  When  his  tailor,  or  his 
shoemaker,  or  his  landlord  gets  him  into  a  corner, 
he  sends  the  bill  to  some  of  his  friends  to  pay  for 
him.  They  never  come  back — anybody  would  do 
Stirling  a  favor,  and  they  know  that  he  never  calls 
on  them  unless  he  is  up  against  it  solid." 

I  instinctively  ran  over  in  my  mind  which  of  my 
own  friends  I  would  approach,  in  a  similar  emer- 
99 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

gency,  and  the  notes  I  would  receive  in  reply.  Stir 
ling  must  know  rather  a  stupid  lot  of  men  or  they 
couldn't  be  buncoed  so  easily,  I  thought. 

Soup  was  now  being  served,  and  Marny  and  the 
waiter  were  discussing  the  merits  of  certain 
vintages,  my  host  insisting  on  a  bottle  of  '84  in 
place  of  the  '82,  then  in  the  waiter's  hand. 

During  the  episode  I  had  the  opportunity  to 
study  Stirling's  table.  I  noticed  that  hardly  a  man 
entered  the  room  who  did  not  stop  and  lay  his  hand 
affectionately  on  Stirling's  shoulder,  bending  over 
and  joining  in  the  laugh.  His  guests,  too — those 
about  his  table — seemed  equally  loyal  and  happy. 
Riggs's  hard  business  face — evidently  a  man  of 
serious  life — was  beaming  with  merriment  and  twice 
as  wide,  under  Jack's  leadership,  and  Crofield  and 
the  others  were  leaning  forward,  their  eyes  fixed  on 
their  host,  waiting  for  the  point  of  his  story,  then 
breaking  out  together  in  a  simultaneous  laugh  that 
could  be  heard  all  over  our  part  of  the  room. 

When  Marny  had  received  the  wine  he  wanted 
— it's  extraordinary  how  critical  a  man's  palate 
becomes  when  his  income  is  thousands  a  year  in- 
100 


THE    RAJAH    O¥^J£' 

stead  of  dollars — I  opened  up  again  with  my  bat 
tery  of  questions.  His  friend  had  upset  all  my 
formulas  and  made  a  laughing-stock  of  my  most 
precious  traditions.  "Pay  as  you  go  and  keep  out 
of  debt"  seemed  to  belong  to  a  past  age. 

"Speaking  of  your  friend,  the  Rajah,  as  you 
call  him,"  I  asked,  "and  his  making  his  friends  pay 
his  bills — does  he  ever  pay  back?" 

"Always,  when  he  gets  it." 

"Well,  where  does  he  get  it — cards?"  It  seemed 
to  me  now  that  I  saw  some  comforting  light  ahead, 
dense  as  I  am  at  times. 

"Cards!  Not  much — never  played  a  game  in  his 
life.  Not  that  kind  of  a  man." 

"How,  then  ?"  I  wanted  the  facts.  There  must  be 
some  way  in  which  a  man  like  Stirling  could  live, 
keep  out  of  jail,  and  keep  his  friends — friends  like 
Marny. 

"Same  way.  Just  chucks  around  cheerfulness  to 
everybody  who  wants  it,  and  'most  everybody  does. 
As  to  ready  money,  there's  hardly  one  of  his  rich 
friends  in  the  Street  who  hasn't  a  Jack  Stirling 
account  on  his  books.  And  they  are  always  lucky, 
101 


AT    C-^OSE    RANGE 

for  what  they  buy  for  Jack  Stirling  is  sure  to  go 
up.  Got  to  be  a  superstition,  really.  I  know  one 
broker  who  sent  him  over  three  thousand  dollars 
last  fall — made  it  for  him  out  of  a  rise  in  some  coal 
stock.  Wrote  him  a  note  and  told  him  he  still  had 
two  thousand  dollars  to  his  credit  on  his  books, 
which  he  would  hold  as  a  stake  to  make  another  turn 
on  next  time  he  saw  a  sure  thing  in  sight.  I  was 
with  Jack  when  he  opened  the  letter.  What  do  you 
think  he  did?  He  pulled  out  his  bureau  drawer, 
found  a  slip  of  paper  containing  a  list  of  his  debts, 
sat  down  and  wrote  out  a  check  for  each  one  of  his 
creditors  and  enclosed  them  in  the  most  charming 
little  notes  with  marginal  sketches — some  in  water- 
color — which  every  man  of  them  preserves  now  as 
souvenirs.  I've  got  one  framed  in  my  studio — reg 
ular  little  Fortuny — and  the  check  is  framed  in 
with  it.  Never  cashed  it  and  never  will.  The  Rajah, 
I  tell  you,  old  man,  is  very  punctilious  about  his 
debts,  no  matter  how  small  they  are.  Gave  me  fifteen 
shillings  last  time  I  went  to  Cairo  to  pay  some 
duffer  that  lived  up  a  street  back  of  Shepheard's,  a 
red-faced  Englishman  who  had  helped  Jack  out  of 
102 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

a  hole  the  year  before,  and  who  would  have  pen 
sioned  the  Rajah  for  life  if  he  could  have  induced 
him  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  years  with  him.  And  he 
only  saw  him  for  two  days !  That's  the  funny  thing 
about  Jack.  He  never  forgets  his  creditors,  and  his 
creditors  never  forget  him.  I'll  tell  you  about  this 
old  Cairo  lobster — that's  what  he  looked  like — red 
and  claw-y. 

"When  I  found  him  he  was  stretched  in  a  chair 
trying  to  cool  off ;  he  didn't  even  have  the  decency 
to  get  on  his  feet. 

"  'Who  ?'  he  snapped  out.  Just  as  if  I  had  been 
a  book  agent. 

"  'Mr.  John  Stirling  of  New  York.' 

"  'Owes  me  fifteen  shillings  ?' 

"  'That's  what  he  said,  and  here  it  is,'  and  I 
handed  him  the  silver. 

"  'Young  man,'  he  says,  glowering  at  me,  'I 
don't  know  what  your  game  is,  but  I'll  tell  you 
right  here  you  can't  play  it  on  me.  Never  heard  of 
Misftfr-John-Stirling-of-New-York  in  my  life.  So 
you  can  put  your  money  back.'  I  wasn't  going  to 
be  whipped  by  the  old  shell-fish,  and  then  I  didn't 
103 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

like  the  way  he  spoke  of  Jack.  I  knew  he  was  the 
right  man,  for  Jack  doesn't  make  mistakes — not 
about  things  like  that.  So  I  went  at  him  on  another 
tack. 

"  'Weren't  you  up  at  Philae  two  years  ago  in  a 
dahabieh  ?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'And  didn't  you  meet  four  or  five  young  Ameri 
cans  who  came  up  on  the  steamer,  and  who  got  into 
a  scrape  over  their  fare?' 

"  'I  might — I  can't  recollect  everybody  I  meet — 
don't  want  to — half  of  'em — '  All  this  time  I  was 
standing,  remember. 

"  'And  didn't  you — '  I  was  going  on  to  say,  but 
he  jumped  from  his  chair  and  was  fumbling  about 
a  bookcase. 

"  'Ah,  here  it  is !'  he  cried  out.  'Here's  a  book  of 
photographs  of  a  whole  raft  of  young  fellows  I  met 
up  the  Nile  on  that  trip.  Most  of  'em  owed  me  some 
thing  and  still  do.  Pick  out  the  man  now  you  say 
owes  me  fifteen  shillings  and  wants  to  pay  it.' 

"  'There  he  is — one  of  those  three.' 

"The  old  fellow  adjusted  his  glasses. 
104 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

"  'The  Rajah!  That  man!  Know  him?  Best  lad 
I  ever  met  in  my  life.  I'm  damned  if  I  take  his 
money,  and  you  can  go  home  and  tell  him  so.'  He 
did,  though,  and  I  sat  with  him  until  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning  talking  about  Jack,  and  I  had  all 
I  could  do  getting  away  from  him  then.  Wanted  me 
to  move  in  next  day  bag  and  baggage,  and  stay  a 
month  with  him.  He  wasn't  so  bad  when  I  came  to 
know  him,  if  he  was  red  and  claw-y." 

I  again  devoted  my  thoughts  to  the  dinner — 
what  I  could  spare  from  the  remarkable  personage 
Marny  had  been  discussing,  and  who  still  sat  within 
a  few  tables  of  us.  My  friend's  story  had  opened 
up  a  new  view  of  life,  one  that  I  had  never  expected 
to  see  personified  in  any  one  man.  The  old-fashioned 
rules  by  which  I  had  been  brought  up — the  rules 
of  "An  eye  for  an  eye,"  and  "Earn  thy  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  thy  brow,"  etc. — seemed  to  have  lost 
their  meaning.  The  Rajah's  method,  it  seemed  to 
me,  if  persisted  in,  might  help  solve  the  new  prob 
lem  of  the  day — "the  joy  of  living" — always  a 
colossal  joke  with  me.  I  determined  to  know  some 
thing  more  of  this  lazy  apostle  in  a  dress  suit  who 
105 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

dispensed  sweetness  and  light  at  some  other  fellow's 
expense. 

"Why  do  you  call  him  'The  Rajah,'  Marny?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  he  got  that  in  India.  A  lot  of  people  like 
that  old  lobster  in  Cairo  don't  know  him  by  any 
other  name." 

"What  did  he  do  in  India?" 

"Nothing  in  particular — just  kept  on  being 
himself — just  as  he  does  everywhere." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  I  got  it  from  Ashburton,  a  member  of  the 
Alpine  Club  in  London.  But  everybody  knows  the 
story — wonder  you  haven't  heard  it.  You  ought  to 
come  out  of  your  hole,  old  man,  and  see  what's 
going  on  in  the  world.  You  live  up  in  that  den  of 
yours,  and  the  procession  goes  by  and  you  don't 
even  hear  the  band.  You  ought  to  know  Jack — 
he'd  do  you  a  lot  of  good,"  and  Marny  looked  at 
me  curiously — as  a  physician  would,  who,  when  he 
prescribes  for  you,  tells  you  only  one-half  of  your 
ailment. 

I  did  not  interrupt  my  friend — I  wasn't  getting 
106 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

thousands  for  a  child's  head,  and  twice  that  price 
for  the  mother  in  green  silk  and  diamonds.  And 
I  couldn't  afford  to  hang  out  my  window  and  watch 
any  kind  of  procession,  figurative  or  otherwise. 
Nor  could  I  afford  to  exchange  dinners  with  John 
Stirling. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  that  time  the 
Rajah  had  in  India?  Well,  move  your  glass  this 
way,"  and  my  host  picked  up  the  '84.  "Ashburton," 
continued  Marny,  and  he  filled  my  glass  to  the  brim, 
"is  one  of  those  globe-trotters  who  does  mountain- 
tops  for  exercise.  He  knows  the  Andes  as  well  as  he 
does  the  glaciers  in  Switzerland;  has  been  up  the 
Matterhorn  and  Mont  Blanc,  and  every  other  snow 
capped  peak  within  reach,  and  so  he  thought  he'd 
try  the  Himalayas.  You  know  how  these  English 
men  are — the  rich  ones.  At  twenty-five  a  good  many 
of  them  have  exhausted  life.  Some  shoot  tigers,  some 
fit  out  caravans  and  cross  deserts,  some  get  lost  in 
African  jungles,  and  some  come  here  and  go  out 
West  for  big  game ;  anything  that  will  keep  them 
from  being  bored  to  death  before  they  are  thirty- 
five  years  of  age.  Ashburton  was  that  kind. 
107 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"He  had  only  been  home  ten  days — he  had  spent 
two  years  in  Yucatan  looking  up  Toltec  ruins — 
when  this  Himalaya  trip  got  into  his  head.  Ques 
tion  was,  whom  could  he  get  to  go  with  him,  for 
these  fellows  hate  to  be  alone.  Some  of  the  men  he 
wanted  hadn't  returned  from  their  own  wild-goose 
chases ;  others  couldn't  get  away — one  was  running 
for  Parliament,  I  think — and  so  Ashburton,  curs 
ing  his  luck,  had  about  made  up  his  mind  to  try 
it  alone,  when  he  ran  across  Jack  one  day  in  the 
club. 

"'Hello,  Stirling!  Thought  you'd  sailed  for 
America.' 

"  'No,'  said  Jack,  'I  go  next  week.  What  are  you 
doing  here?  Thought  you  had  gone  to  India.' 

"  'Can't  get  anybody  to  go  with  me,'  answered 
Ashburton. 

"  'Where  do  you  go  first?' 

"  'To  Calcutta  by  steamer,  and  then  strike  in  and 
up  to  the  foot-hills.' 

"  'For  how  long?' 

"  'About  a  year.   Come  with  me  like  a  decent 


108 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

"  'Can't.  Only  got  money  enough  to  get  home, 
and  I  don't  like  climbing.' 

"  'Money  hasn't  got  anything  to  do  with  it — 
you  go  as  my  guest.  As  to  climbing,  you  won't  have 
to  climb  an  inch.  I'll  leave  you  at  the  foot-hills  in  a 
bungalow,  with  somebody  to  take  care  of  you,  and 
you  can  stay  there  until  I  come  back.' 

"  'How  long  will  you  be  climbing?' 

"  'About  two  months.' 

"'When  do  you  start?' 

"  'To-morrow,  at  daylight.' 

"  'All  right,  I'll  be  on  board.' 

"Going  out,  Jack  got  up  charades  and  all  sorts 
of  performances ;  rescued  a  man  overboard,  striking 
the  water  about  as  soon  as  the  man  did,  and  hold 
ing  on  to  him  until  the  lifeboat  reached  them ;  stud 
ied  navigation  and  took  observations  every  day 
until  he  learned  how;  started  a  school  for  the  chil 
dren — there  were  a  dozen  on  board — and  told  them 
fairy  tales  by  the  hour ;  and  by  the  time  the  steamer 
reached  Calcutta  every  man,  woman,  and  child  had 
fallen  in  love  with  him.  One  old  Maharajah, who  was 
on  board,  took  such  a  fancy  to  him  that  he  insisted 
109 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

on  Jack's  spending  a  year  with  him,  and  there  came 
near  being  a  precious  row  when  he  refused,  which 
of  course  he  had  to  do,  being  Ashburton's  guest. 

"When  the  two  got  to  where  Jack  was  to  camp 
out  and  wait  for  Ashburton's  return  from  his  climb 
— it  was  a  little  spot  called  Bungpore — the  Eng 
lishman  fitted  up  a  place  just  as  he  said  he  would; 
left  two  men  to  look  after  him — one  to  cook  and 
the  other  to  wait  on  him — fell  on  Jack's  neck,  for 
he  hated  the  worst  kind  to  leave  him,  and  disap 
peared  into  the  brush  with  his  retainers — or  what 
ever  he  did  disappear  into  and  with — I  never 
climbed  the  Himalayas,  and  so  I'm  a  little  hazy 
over  these  details.  And  that's  the  last  Ashburton 
saw  of  Jack  until  he  returned  two  months  later." 

Marny  emptied  his  glass,  flicked  the  ashes  from 
his  cigarette,  beckoned  to  the  waiter,  and  gave  him 
an  order  for  a  second  bottle  of  '84.  During  the 
break  in  the  story  I  made  another  critical  exam 
ination  of  the  hero,  as  he  sat  surrounded  by  his 
guests,  his  face  beaming,  the  light  falling  on  his 
immaculate  shirt-front.  I  noted  the  size  of  his  arm 
and  the  depth  of  his  chest,  and  his  lithe,  muscular 
110 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

thighs.  I  noticed,  too,  how  quickly  he  gained  his 
feet  when  welcoming  a  friend,  who  had  just  stopped 
at  his  table.  I  understood  now  how  the  drowning 
sailor  came  to  be  saved. 

The  wine  matter  settled,  Marny  took  some  fresh 
cigarettes  from  his  silver  case,  passed  one  to  me, 
and  held  a  match  to  both  in  turn.  Between  the  puffs 
I  again  brought  the  talk  back  to  the  man  who  now 
interested  me  intensely.  I  was  afraid  we  would  be 
interrupted  and  I  have  to  wait  before  finding  out 
why  his  friend  was  called  the  "Rajah." 

"I  should  think  he  would  have  gone  with  him 
instead  of  staying  behind  and  living  off  his 
bounty,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes — I  know  you  would,  old  man,  but  Jack 
thought  differently,  not  being  built  along  your 
lines.  You've  got  to  know  him — I  tell  you,  he'll  do 
you  a  lot  of  good.  Stirling  saw  that,  if  he  went,  it 
would  only  double  Ashburton's  expense  account, 
and  so  he  squatted  down  to  wait  with  just  money 
enough  to  get  along  those  two  months,  and  not  an 
other  cent.  Told  Ashburton  he  wanted  to  learn  Hin- 
dustanee,  and  he  couldn't  do  it  if  he  was  sliding 
111 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

down  glaciers  and  getting  his  feet  wet — it  would 
keep  him  from  studying." 

"And  was  Stirling  waiting  for  him  when  Ash- 
burton  came  back?" 

"Waiting  for  him!  Well,  I  guess!  First  thing 
Ashburton  ran  up  against  was  one  of  the  black 
amoors  he  had  hired  to  take  care  of  Jack.  When 
he  had  left  the  fellow  he  was  clothed  in  a  full 
suit  of  yellow  dust  with  a  rag  around  his  loins. 
Now  he  was  gotten  up  in  a  red  turban  and  paja 
mas  trimmed  with  gewgaws.  The  blackamoor 
prostrated  himself  and  began  kotowing  backward 
toward  a  marquee  erected  on  a  little  knoll  under 
some  trees  and  surrounded  by  elephants  in  gorgeous 
trappings.  'The  Rajah  of  Bungpore' — that  was 
Jack — 'had  sent  him,'  he  said,  'to  conduct  his  Royal 
Highness  into  the  presence  of  his  illustrious 
master !' 

"When  Ashburton  reached  the  door  of  the 
marquee  and  peered  in,  he  saw  Jack  lying  back 
on  an  Oriental  couch  at  the  other  end  smoking  the 
pipe  of  the  country — whatever  that  was — and  sur 
rounded  by  a  collection  of  Hottentots  of  various 


At  his  feet  knelt  two  Hindu  merchants  displaying  their  \v; 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

sizes  and  colors,  who  fell  on  their  foreheads  every 
time  Jack  crooked  his  finger.  At  his  feet  knelt  two 
Hindoo  merchants  displaying  their  wares — pearls, 
ivories,  precious  stones,  arms,  porcelains — stuffs 
of  a  quality  and  price,  Ashburton  told  me,  that  took 
his  breath  away.  Jack  kept  on — he  made  out  he 
didn't  see  Ashburton — his  slaves  bearing  the  pur 
chases  away  and  depositing  them  on  a  low  inlaid 
table — teakwood,  I  guess — in  one  corner  of  the 
marquee,  while  a  confidential  Lord  of  the  Treasury 
took  the  coin  of  the  realm  from  a  bag  or  gourd — 
or  whatever  he  did  take  it  from — and  paid  the  shot. 

"When  the  audience  was  over,  Jack  waved  every 
body  outside  with  a  commanding  gesture,  and  still 
lolling  on  his  rugs — or  maybe  his  tiger  skins — told 
his  Grand  Vizier  to  conduct  the  strange  man  to  his 
august  presence.  Then  Jack  rose  from  this  throne, 
dismissed  the  Grand  Vizier,  and  fell  into  Ashbur- 
ton's  arms  roaring  with  laughter." 

"And  Ashburton  had  to  foot  the  bills,  I  sup 
pose,"  I  blurted  out.  It  is  astonishing  how  suspi 
cious  and  mean  a  man  gets  sometimes  who  mixes 
as  little  as  I  do  with  what  Marny  calls  "the  swim." 
113 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Ashburton  foot  the  bills !  Not  much !  Listen,  you 
six  by  nine !  Stirling  hadn't  been  alone  more  than  a 
week  when  along  comes  the  Maharajah  he  had  met 
on  the  steamer.  He  lived  up  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  and  one  of  his  private  detectives  had  told 
him  that  somebody  was  camping  out  on  his  lot. 
Down  he  came  in  a  white  heat,  with  a  bag  of  bow 
strings  and  a  squad  of  the  'Finest'  in  pink  trousers 
and  spears.  I  get  these  details  all  wrong,  old  man 
— they  might  have  been  in  frock-coats  for  all  I 
know  or  care — but  what  I'm  after  is  the  Oriental 
atmosphere — a  sort  of  property  background  with 
my  principal  figure  high  up  on  the  canvas — and 
one  costume  is  as  good  as  another. 

"When  the  old  Maharajah  found  out  it  was  Jack 
instead  of  some  squatter,  he  fell  all  over  himself 
with  joy.  Wanted  to  take  him  up  to  his  marble 
palace,  open  up  everything,  unlock  a  harem,  trot 
out  a  half-dozen  chorus  girls  in  bangles  and 
mosquito-net  bloomers,  and  do  a  lot  of  comfortable 
things  for  him.  But  Jack  said  No.  He  was  put  here 
to  stay,  and  here  he  was  going  to  stay  if  he  had  to 
call  out  every  man  in  his  army.  The  old  fellow  saw 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

the  joke  and  said  all  right,  here  he  should  stay ;  and 
before  night  he  had  moved  down  a  tent,  and  a  body 
guard,  and  an  elephant  or  two  for  local  color,  so  as 
to  make  it  real  Oriental  for  Jack,  and  the  next  day 
he  sent  him  down  a  bag  of  gold,  and  servants,  and 
a  cook.  Every  pedler  who  appeared  after  that  he 
passed  along  to  Jack,  and  before  Ashburton  turned 
up  Stirling  had  a  collection  of  curios  worth  a 
fortune.  One-half  of  them  he  gave  to  Ashburton 
and  the  other  half  be  brought  home  to  his  friends. 
That  inlaid  elephant's  tusk  hanging  up  in  my 
studio  is  one  of  them — you  remember  it." 

As  Marny  finished,  one  of  the  waiters  who  had 
been  serving  Stirling  and  his  guests  approached 
our  table  under  the  direction  of  the  Rajah's  finger, 
and,  bending  over  Marny,  whispered  something  in 
his  ear.  He  had  the  cashier's  slip  in  his  hand  and 
Stirling's  visiting  card. 

Marny  laid  the  bill  beside  his  plate,  glanced  at 
the  card  with  a  laugh,  his  face  lighting  up,  and 
then  passed  it  to  me.  It  read  as  follows :  "Not  a  red 
and  no  credit.  Sign  it  for  Jack." 

Marny  raised  his  eyes,  nodded  his  head  at  Stir- 
115 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ling,  kissed  his  finger-tips  at  him,  fished  up  his  gold 
chain,  slid  out  a  pencil  dangling  at  its  end,  wrote 
his  name  across  the  slip,  and  said  in  a  whisper  to  the 
waiter:  "Take  this  to  the  manager  and  have  him 
charge  it  to  my  account." 

When  we  had  finished  our  dinner  and  were  pass 
ing  out  abreast  of  Stirling's  table,  the  Rajah  rose 
to  his  feet,  his  guests  all  standing  about  him,  their 
glasses  in  their  hands — Riggs's  whiskers  stood 
straight,  he  was  so  happy — and,  waving  his  own 
glass  toward  my  host,  said:  "Gentlemen,  I  give 
you  Marny,  the  Master,  the  Velasquez  of  modern 
times !" 

Some  weeks  later  I  called  at  Marny's  studio.  He 
was  out.  On  the  easel  stood  a  full-length  portrait 
of  Riggs,  the  millionaire,  his  thin,  hatchet-shaped 
face  and  white  whiskers  in  high  relief  against  a 
dark  background.  Scattered  about  the  room  were 
smaller  heads  bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  the 
great  president.  Jack  had  evidently  corralled  the 
entire  family — and  all  out  of  that  dinner  at 
Sherry's. 

116 


THE    RAJAH    OF    BUNGPORE 

I  shut  the  door  of  Marny's  studio  softly  behind 
me,  tiptoed  downstairs,  dropped  into  a  restaurant 
under  the  sidewalk,  and  dined  alone. 

Marny  is  right.  The  only  way  to  hear  the  band 
is  to  keep  up  with  the  procession. 

My  philosophy  is  a  failure. 


117 


THE     SOLDO     OF    THE 
CASTELLANI 


THE     SOLDO     OF    THE 
CASTELLANI 

J_  HE  Via  Garibaldi  is  astir  to-day.  From  the 
Ponte  Veneta  Marina,  next  the  caffe  of  the  same 
name — it  is  but  a  step — to  the  big  iron  gates  of 
the  Public  Gardens,  is  a  moving  throng  of  Vene 
tians,  their  chatter  filling  the  soft  September  air. 
Flags  are  waving — all  kinds  of  flags,  and  of  all 
colors;  gay  lanterns  of  quaint  patterns  are  fes 
tooned  from  window  to  window;  old  velvets  and 
rare  stuffs,  some  in  rags  and  tatters,  so  often 
have  they  been  used,  stream  out  from  the  balco 
nies  crowded  with  pretty  Venetians  shading  their 
faces  with  their  parasols  as  they  watch  the  crowds 
below.  In  and  out  of  this  mass  of  holiday-makers 
move  the  pedlers  crying  their  wares,  some  sell 
ing  figs,  their  scales  of  polished  brass  jingling 
as  they  walk;  some  with  gay  handkerchiefs  and 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

scarfs  draped  about  their  trays;  here  and  there 
one  stands  beside  a  tripod  holding  a  big  earthen 
dish  filled  with  fulpi — miniature  devil-fish  about  as 
big  as  a  toad — so  ugly  that  no  man,  however  hun 
gry,  except,  perhaps,  a  Venetian,  dares  swallow  one 
with  his  eyes  open. 

Along  this  stretch  of  waving  flags,  gay-colored 
lanterns,  and  joyous  people,  are  two  places  where 
the  throngs  are  thickest.  One  is  the  Gaffe  Veneta 
Marina,  its  door  within  a  cigarette's  toss  of  the 
first  step  of  the  curving  bridge  of  the  same  name, 
and  the  other  is  the  Caffe  Beneto,  a  smaller  caffe 
farther  down  the  wide  street — wide  for  Venice.  The 
Caffe  Veneta  Marina  contains  but  a  single  room 
level  with  the  street,  and  on  gala  days  its  tables 
and  chairs  are  pushed  quite  out  upon  the  marble 
flags.  The  Caffe  Beneto  runs  through  to  the  wa 
ters  of  the  Grand  Canal  and  opens  on  a  veranda 
fitted  with  a  short  flight  of  steps  at  which  the  gon 
dolas  often  land  their  passengers. 

These  two  caffes  are  the  headquarters  of  two 
opposing  factions  of  gondoliers,  enemies  for  cen 
turies,  since  the  founding  of  their  guild,  in  fact 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

— the  Nicolletti,  whose  caps  in  the  old  days  were 
black,  and  the  Castellani,  whose  caps  were  red.  The 
first  were  publicans,  renowned  for  their  prowess 
with  the  oar,  but  rough  and  outspoken,  boastful 
in  victory,  bitter  in  defeat.  The  second  were  aris 
tocrats,  serving  the  Doge  and  often  of  great  ser 
vice  to  the  State — men  distinguished  for  their 
courtesy  as  well  as  for  their  courage.  These  attri 
butes  have  followed  these  two  guilds  down  to  the 
present  day. 

Every  year  when  the  leaves  of  the  sycamores  in 
the  Public  Gardens  fade  into  brown  gold,  and  the 
great  dome  of  the  Salute,  glistening  like  a  huge 
pink  pearl,  looms  above  the  soft  September  haze 
that  blurs  the  water  line,  these  two  guilds — the 
Nicolletti  and  Castellani — meet  in  combat,  each 
producing  its  best  oarsmen. 

To-day  the  course  is  from  the  wall  of  the  Public 
Gardens  to  the  Lido  and  back.  Young  Francesco 
Portera,  the  idol  of  the  shipyards,  a  big-boned 
Venetian,  short-armed  and  strong,  is  to  row  for  the 
Nicolletti,  and  Luigi  Zanaletto,  a  man  near  twice 
his  age,  for  the  Castellani. 
123 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

For  days  there  has  been  no  other  talk  than  this 
gondola  race.  Never  in  any  September  has  the  bet 
ting  run  so  high.  So  great  is  the  interest  in  the 
contest  that  every  morning  for  a  week  the  line  of 
people  at  the  Monte  di  Pieta — the  Government 
pawn  shop — has  extended  out  into  the  great  cor 
ridor  of  the  Palazzo,  every  arm  and  pocket  filled 
with  clothing,  jewels,  knick-knacks,  everything 
the  owners  can  and  cannot  spare,  to  be  pawned 
in  exchange  for  the  money  needed  to  bet  on  this 
race. 

There  is  good  cause  for  this  unusual  excitement. 
While  Luigi  is  known  as  the  successful  winner  of 
the  four  annual  races  preceding  this  one,  carrying 
the  flag  of  the  Castellani  to  victory  against  all 
comers,  and  each  year  a  new  contestant,  many  of 
his  enemies  insist  that  the  pace  has  told  on  him; 
that  despite  his  great  reach  of  arm  and  sinewy 
legs,  his  strength,  by  reason  of  his  age — they  are 
all  old  at  forty  in  Venice  (except  the  Castellani) — 
is  failing,  and  that  for  him  to  win  this  fifth  and 
last  race  would  be  more  than  any  guild  could  ex 
pect,  glorious  as  would  be  the  result.  Others,  more 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

knowing,  argued  that  while  Francesco  had  an  arm 
like  a  blacksmith  and  could  strike  a  blow  that  would 
fell  an  ox,  he  lacked  that  refinement  of  training 
which  made  the  ideal  oarsman ;  that  it  was  not  so 
much  the  size  or  quality  of  the  muscles  as  it  was 
the  man  who  used  them;  that  blood  and  brains 
were  more  than  brute  force. 

Still  another  feature  added  zest  and  interest  to 
the  race,  especially  to  members  of  the  opposing 
guilds.  There  was  an  unwritten  law  of  Venice  that 
no  man  of  either  guild  could  win  more  than  five 
races  in  succession — a  foolish  law,  many  thought, 
for  no  oarsman  had  accomplished  it.  This  done,  the 
victor  retired  on  his  laureb.  Ever  after  he  became 
Primo — the  envied  of  his  craft,  the  well-beloved 
of  all  the  women  of  his  quarter,  young  and  old 
alike.  Should  Luigi  Zanaletto  win  this  fifth  race, 
no  Nicolletti  could  show  their  faces  for  very  shame 
on  the  Piazza.  For  weeks  thereafter  they  would 
be  made  the  butt  of  the  good-natured  badinage  of 
the  populace.  If,  however,  Luigi  should  lose  this 
fifth  and  last  race,  the  spell  would  be  broken  and 
some  champion  of  the  Nicolletti — perhaps  this  very 
125 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Francesco,  with  the  initiative  of  this  race,  might 
gain  succeeding  victories  and  so  the  Nicolletti  re 
gain  the  ground  they  had  lost  through  Luigi's 
former  prowess. 

Those  of  his  guild,  however,  those  who  knew 
and  loved  Luigi,  had  no  such  misgivings  as  to  the 
outcome.  They  lost  no  sleep  over  his  expected  de 
feat.  As  their  champion  stepped  from  his  gondola 
this  beautiful  September  morning,  laying  his  oar 
along  its  side,  and  mounted  the  marble  steps  of  the 
landing  opposite  the  Gaffe  Veneta  Marina,  those 
who  got  close  enough  to  note  his  superb  condition 
only  added  to  their  wagers.  Six  feet  and  an  inch, 
straight,  with  willowy  arms  strengthened  by  steel 
cords  tied  in  knots  above  the  elbows,  hauled  taut 
along  the  wrists  and  anchored  in  the  hands — grips 
of  steel,  these  hands,  with  thumbs  and  forefingers 
strong  as  the  jaws  of  a  vice  (he  wields  and  guides 
his  oar  with  these)  ;  waist  like  a  woman's,  the  ribs 
outlined  through  the  cross-barred  boating  shirt; 
back  and  stomach  in-curved,  laced  and  clamped  by 
a  red  sash;  thighs  and  calves  of  lapped  leather; 
shoulders  a  beam  of  wood — square,  hard,  unyield- 
126 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

ing;  neck  an  upward  sweep  tanned  to  a  ruddy 
brown,  ending  in  a  mass  of  black  hair,  curly  as  a 
dog's  and  as  strong  and  glistening. 

And  his  face!  Stop  some  morning  before  the 
church  of  Santi  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  and  look  up  into 
the  face  of  the  great  Colleoni  as  he  sits  bestride 
his  bronze  horse,  and  ask  the  noble  soldier  to  doff 
his  helmet.  Then  follow  the  firm  lines  of  the  mouth, 
the  wide  brow,  strong  nose,  and  iron  chin.  Add  to 
this  a  skin  bronzed  to  copper  by  the  sun,  a  pair  of 
laughing  eyes,  and  an  out-pointed  mustache,  and 
you  have  Luigi. 

And  the  air  of  the  man !  Only  gondoliers,  of  all 
serving-men,  have  this  humble  fearlessness  of  man 
ner — a  manner  which  combines  the  dignity  of  the 
patrician  with  the  humility  of  the  servant.  It  is 
their  calling  which  marks  the  difference.  Small  as 
is  the  gondola  among  all  water  craft,  the  gondolier 
is  yet  its  master,  free  to  come  and  free  to  go.  The 
wide  stretch  of  the  sea  is  his — not  another's:  a 
sea  hemmed  about  by  the  palaces  of  ancestors  who 
for  ten  centuries  dominated  the  globe. 


127 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

But  Luigi  is  still  standing  on  the  marble  steps 
of  the  landing  opposite  the  Gaffe  Veneta  Marina 
this  lovely  September  day,  doffing  his  cap  to  the 
admiring  throng,  just  as  Colleoni  would  have 
doffed  his,  and  with  equal  grace.  Not  the  red  cap 
of  his  guild — that  has  been  laid  aside  for  two 
centuries — but  his  wide  straw  hat,  with  his  colors 
wound  about  it. 

As  he  made  his  way  slowly  through  the  crowd 
toward  the  caffe,  an  old  woman  who  had  been 
waiting  for  him — wrinkled,  gray-haired,  a  black 
shawl  about  her  head  held  tight  to  the  chin  by 
her  skinny  fingers,  her  eyes  peering  from  its  folds 
— stepped  in  front  of  him.  She  lived  near  his 
home  and  was  godmother  to  one  of  his  children. 

"Luigi  Zanaletto !"  she  cried,  catching  him  by 
the  wrist. 

"Yes,  good  mother." 

"That  idiot  Marco  told  my  Amalia  last  night 
that  you  will  lose  the  race.  He  has  been  to  the 
Pieta  and  will  bet  all  his  money  on  Francesco." 

"And  why  not,  good  mother?  Why  do  you 
worry  ?" 

128 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

"Because  the  two  fools  will  have  no  money  to  be 
married  on.  They  are  called  in  San  Rosario  next 
Sunday,  and  the  next  is  their  wedding-day.  He 
has  pawned  the  boat  his  uncle  gave  him." 

"And  if  he  wins?" 

"He  will  not  win,  Luigi.  When  that  brute  came 
in  from  the  little  race  we  had  last  week  I  was  pass 
ing  in  a  sandolo  on  my  way  to  San  Giorgio. 
He  was  panting  like  a  child  after  a  run.  If  he 
had  no  breath  left  in  him  then,  where  will  he  be 
to-day?" 

"One  cannot  tell,  good  mother.  Who  told  the  boy 
I  would  lose  the  race?" 

"Beppo  Cavalli." 

"Ah !  the  Nicolletti,"  muttered  Luigi. 

"Yes." 

"He  has  a  boy,  too,  has  he  not,  good  mother?" 

"Yes,  Amalia  loved  him  once;  now  she  loves 
Marco.  These  girls  are  like  the  wind,  Luigi.  They 
never  blow  two  days  alike." 

Luigi  stopped  and  looked  out  toward  the  la 
goon.  He  knew  Cavalli.  In  summer  he  rowed  a 
barca ;  in  winter  he  kept  a  wine  shop  and  sold 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

untaxed  salt  and  smuggled  cigarettes  to  his  cus 
tomers.  The  crowd  pressed  closer,  listening. 

"Beppo  Cavalli,  good  mother,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"means  ill  to  the  boy  Marco  and  to  your  daughter. 
The  Cavallis  are  not  backing  Francesco.  They  talk 
loud,  but  there  is  not  a  soldo  for  him  among  them. 
Cavalli  would  get  that  girl  for  his  son;  she  is 
pretty  and  would  bring  customers  to  his  shop. 
Where  is  Marco?" 

"He  is  at  the  Caffe  Beneto  with  Cavalli  and 
Francesco.  I  have  tired  my  tongue  out  talking  to 
Marco,  and  so  has  Amalia.  His  head  is  fixed  like  a 
stone.  Francesco  is  getting  ready  for  this  after 
noon,  but  it  will  do  him  no  good.  He  has  not  arms 
like  this.  Is  it  not  so,  men?" — and  she  lifted  Luigi's 
arm  and  held  it  up  that  the  crowd  might  see. 

A  great  cheer  went  up  in  answer,  and  was  echoed 
by  the  crowd  about  the  caffe  door.  Luigi  among 
the  people  of  his  quarter  was  like  their  religion. 

The  champion  had  now  reached  one  of  the  tables 

of  the  caffe.  Drawing  out  a  chair,  he  bent  forward, 

shook    hands    with    old    Guido,    the    proprietor, 

crooked  his  fingers  gallantly  at  a  group  of  women 

130 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

in  an  overhanging  balcony,  and  was  just  taking 
his  seat  when  a  young  girl  edged  her  way  through 
the  circle  and  slipped  her  arm  around  the  woman's 
neck.  She  had  the  low  brow  surmounted  by  masses 
of  jet-black  hair,  drooping,  sleepy  eyelids  shading 
slumbering,  passionate  eyes,  sensitive  sweet  mouth 
and  oval  face  common  to  her  class.  About  her 
shoulders  was  draped  a  black  shawl,  its  fringes  lost 
in  the  folds  of  her  simple  gown. 

"Oh,  Amalia!"  cried  the  woman,  "has  this  boy 
of  yours  given  up  his  money  yet?" 

"No,  mother,  he  has  promised  to  wait  till  I  come 
back.  Marco  is  like  a  wild  man  when  I  talk.  I 
thought  Luigi  would  speak  to  him  if  I  asked  him. 
Please,  dear  Luigi,  do  not  let  him  lose  his  money. 
We  are  ruined  if  he  bets  on  Francesco." 

Luigi  reached  out  his  hand  and  drew  the  girl 
toward  him.  His  own  daughter  at  home  had  just 
such  a  look  in  her  eyes  whenever  she  was  in  trouble 
and  came  to  him  for  help. 

"How  much  will  he  bet,  child?"  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Every  soldo  he  has.  Cavalli  talks  to  him  all  the 
131 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

time.  They  are  like  crazy  people  over  there  at  the 
Beneto.  Ah,  good  Luigi,  do  not  win !  I  am  so  un 
happy!"  and  the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Luigi,  still  holding  her  hand,  laughed  gently  as 
he  looked  up  into  her  face.  The  others  who  had 
heard  the  girl's  plea  laughed  with  him. 

"Go,  child,  and  bring  Marco  here  to  me.  Cavalli 
shall  not  ruin  you  both,  if  I  can  help  it." 

The  girl  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  flushed 
face,  drew  her  shawl  closer  about  her  shoulders, 
bent  her  pretty  head,  wormed  her  way  out  of  the 
dense  throng  pressing  in  upon  the  table,  and  ran 
with  all  her  might  toward  the  Caffe  Beneto,  fol 
lowed  by  her  mother. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  back  again,  their 
arms  fast  locked  in  those  of  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty — they  marry  young  under  Italian  suns — 
who  stood  looking  at  Luigi  with  curious,  wondering 
eyes.  Not  that  he  did  not  know  the  champion — 
every  man  in  Venice  knew  him — but  because  Cavalli 
had  pictured  Luigi  as  of  doubtful  strength,  and 
the  Luigi  before  him  did  not  fit  Cavalli's  measure. 

"Marco,"  said  Luigi,  a  smile  crossing  his  face. 
132 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

"Yes,  Signore  Zanaletto,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Come  nearer." 

The  young  fellow  advanced  to  the  table.  The 
others  who  had  been  near  enough  to  learn  of  the 
girl's  errand  crowded  the  closer.  Every  utterance 
of  a  champion  on  a  day  like  this  is  of  value. 

"You  should  be  at  work,  boy,  not  betting  on 
the  race.  You  earn  your  living  with  your  hands ; 
that  is  better  than  Cavalli's  way ;  he  earns  his  with 
his  tongue.  I  am  nearly  twice  your  age  and  have 
rowed  many  times,  but  I  have  never  yet  wagered 
as  much  as  a  soldo  on  any  race  of  mine.  Give 
your  money  to  the  good  mother,  and  let  her  take  it 
to  the  Pieta  and  get  your  boat.  You  will  need  it 
before  the  month  is  out,  she  tells  me." 

The  boy  hung  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

"Why  do  you  think  I  shall  lose?  Have  I  not 
won  four  already?" 

"Yes,  but  every  year  the  signore  gets  older ;  you 
are  not  so  strong  as  you  were.  And  then,  no  man 
has  won  five  races  in  fifty  years.  It  is  the  Nicol- 
letti's  year  to  win,  Cavalli  says." 

A  cheer  here  went  up  from  the  outside  of  the 
133 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

crowd.   Some  of  the  Nicolletti  who  had  followed 
the  boy  had  been  listening. 

"Cavalli  should  read  his  history  better.  It  is  not 
fifty  years,  but  sixty.  But  we  Italians  work  for  our 
selves  now,  and  are  free.  That  counts  for  some 
thing." 

"Francesco  works,  Signore  Zanaletto.  He  has 
arms  like  my  leg." 

"Yes,  and  for  that  reason  you  think  him  the 
stronger?" 

"I  did  when  Cavalli  talked  to  me.  Now  I  am  in 
doubt." 

The  cheer  that  answered  this  reply  came  from 
some  Castellani  standing  in  the  door  of  the  caffe. 
When  the  cheering  slackened  a  man  on  the  outside 
of  the  crowd  called  out: 

"Your  Luigi  is  a  coward.  He  will  not  bet  be 
cause  he  knows  he'll  lose." 

At  this  a  big  stevedore  from  the  salt  warehouse 
lunged  toward  Luigi  and  threw  a  silver  lira  on 
his  table. 

"Match  that  for  Francesco  !"  he  cried. 

Luigi  pushed  it  back. 

134 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

"When  I  bet  it  will  be  with  my  equal,"  he  said, 
icily. 

A  laugh  of  derision  followed,  in  which  Marco 
joined.  The  boy  evidently  thought  the  champion 
was  afraid  to  risk  his  own  money  and  make  his 
word  good.  Boys  of  twenty  often  have  such  stand 
ards. 

"Bet  with  Francesco,  then,  Signore  Zanaletto," 
cried  the  stevedore.  "He  is  twice  your  equal." 

"Yes,  bring  him  here,"  answered  Luigi,  quietly. 

Half  a  dozen  men,  led  by  the  big  stevedore,  made 
a  rush  for  the  Gaffe  Beneto.  While  they  were  gone, 
Marco,  with  Amalia  and  her  mother,  kept  their 
places  beside  Luigi's  table,  chatting  together  in  low 
tones.  Luigi's  refusal  to  bet  with  the  stevedore  and 
his  willingness  to  bet  with  his  opponent  had  un 
settled  Marco's  mind  all  the  more.  Marriage,  with 
him  as  with  most  of  the  people  of  his  class,  meant 
just  money  enough  to  pay  the  priest  and  to  defray 
expenses  of  existence  for  a  month.  He  would  take 
his  chances  after  that.  They  might  both  go  to  work 
again  then,  she  back  to  her  beads  and  he  to  his 
boat,  but  they  would  have  had  their  holiday,  and 
135 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

a  holiday  is  the  one  thing  valued  above  all  others 
by  most  Venetians.  Should  he  lose,  however,  he 
must  give  up  the  girl  for  the  present — the  pretti 
est  in  all  the  quarter.  And  then  perhaps  Beppo 
Cavalli's  son  might  find  favor  again  in  her  eyes. 

Amalia's  anxiety  was  none  the  less  keen.  She  had 
thrown  over  Cavalli's  son  for  Marco,  and  if  any 
thing  should  go  wrong  the  whole  quarter  would 
laugh  at  her.  The  two  continued  to  ply  Luigi  with 
questions :  as  to  who  would  win  the  toss  for  posi 
tion;  whether  the  wind  would  be  against  them; 
whether  the  water  would  be  rough  where  the  tide 
cut  around  the  point  of  San  Giorgio — all  of  which 
Marco,  being  a  good  boatman,  could  have  settled 
for  himself  had  his  mind  been  normal.  As  they 
talked  on,  Luigi  read  their  minds.  Reason  and  com 
mon  sense  had  evidently  made  no  impression  on  the 
boy ;  he  was  not  to  be  influenced  in  that  way.  Some 
thing  stronger  and  more  obvious,  some  demonstra 
tion  that  he  could  understand,  was  needed.  Amalia's 
mother  was  his  friend,  and  had  been  for  years; 
what  he  could  do  to  help  her  he  would,  no  matter 
at  what  cost. 

136 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

The  throng  parted  again,  and  the  stevedore,  out 
of  breath,  forced  his  way  into  the  circle. 

"The  great  Francesco  says  he  comes  at  no  man's 
call.  He  is  a  Nicolletti.  If  any  Castellani  wants  to 
see  him  he  must  come  to  him.  He  will  wait  for 
you  at  the  Beneto." 

A  shout  went  up,  and  a  rush  to  avenge  the  insult 
was  only  stopped  by  Luigi  gaining  his  feet  and 
raising  his  hand. 

"Tell  him,"  he  said,  in  a  clear  voice,  loud  enough 
for  everyone  to  hear,  "that  there  is  no  need  of  his 
saying  he  is  a  Nicolletti ;  wre  would  know  it  from 
his  message.  Come,  boy,  I'll  show  you  of  what  stuff 
this  gentleman  is  made." 

The  crowd  fell  back,  Luigi  striding  along,  his 
hand  on  Marco's  shoulder.  The  champion  could 
hardly  conceal  a  smile  of  triumph  as  he  neared  the 
door  of  the  Gaffe  Beneto,  which  opened  to  let  them 
in.  The  two  passed  through  the  long  passage  into 
the  room  opening  out  on  the  veranda  and  the  water 
beyond.  Francesco  sat  at  a  table  with  his  back  to 
a  window,  sipping  a  glass  of  wine  diluted  with 
water.  Cavalli,  his  head  bound  with  a  yellow  hand- 
137 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

kerchief,  the  colors  of  the  Nicolletti,  a  scowl  on  his 
face,  sat  beside  him.  Every  inch  of  standing  room 
was  blocked  with  his  admirers. 

"Signore  Francesco,"  said  Luigi,  courteously, 
removing  his  hat,  "I  understand  that  you  want  to 
lose  some  money  on  the  race.  I  have  come  to  accom 
modate  you.  How  much  shall  it  be?" 

"Ten  lire!"  cried  one  of  the  officers  of  the  re 
gatta,  pouring  some  silver  beside  Francesco's  hand 
as  it  rested  on  the  table.  "Put  your  money  here,  Sig 
nore  Zanaletto.  Our  good  landlord  will  hold  the 
stakes." 

"The  money  is  not  enough,"  answered  Luigi. 
"I  am  the  challenged  party,  and  have  the  right  to 
choose.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices;  "make  it 
fifty  lire!  We  are  not  lazagnoni.  We  have  money 
— plenty  of  it.  See,  Signore  Castellani" — and 
half  a  dozen  palms  covered  with  small  coin  were 
extended. 

"I  can  choose,  then,  the  kind  of  money  and  the 
sum,"  continued  Luigi. 

"Yes,  gold,  silver,  paper — anything  you  want !" 
138 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLAN  I 

"Then,  gentle  Nicolletti,"  said  Luigi,  in  his  soft 
est  and  most  courteous  voice,  "if  you  will  permit 
me,  I  will  choose  the  poor  man's  money.  Match  this, 
Signore  Francesco,"  and  he  threw  a  copper  soldo 
(a  coin  the  size  and  thickness  of  an  English  penny) 
upon  the  table.  "It  is  yours  if  you  win." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  announcement. 
Francesco  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  not  here  to  be  made  a  fool  of !  I  don't  bet 
with  soldi !  I  throw  them  to  beggars !"  he  cried, 
angrily. 

"Pardon  me,  signore.  Was  it  not  agreed  that  I 
had  the  choice?" 

Some  muttering  was  heard  at  this,  but  no  one 
answered. 

"Let  us  see  your  soldo,  then,  signore,"  continued 
Luigi.  "The  race  is  the  thing,  not  the  money.  A 
soldo  is  as  good  as  a  gold  piece  with  which  to  back 
one's  opinions.  Come,  I  am  waiting." 

Francesco  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  hauled 
up  a  handful  of  small  coin,  picked  out  a  soldo  and 
threw  it  contemptuously  on  the  table. 

"Ther^-wiU  that  do?" 
139 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Luigi  picked  up  the  copper  coin,  examined  it 
carefully,  and  tossed  it  back  on  the  table. 

"It  is  not  of  the  right  kind,  signore.  The  stamp 
is  wrong.  We  Castellani  are  very  particular  as  to 
what  money  we  wager  and  win." 

The  crowd  craned  their  heads.  If  it  was  a  coun 
terfeit,  they  would  put  up  another.  This,  however, 
did  not  seem  to  be  Luigi's  meaning.  The  boy 
Marco  was  so  absorbed  in  the  outcome  that  he 
reached  forward  to  pick  up  the  coin  to  examine 
it  the  closer  when  Luigi  stopped  him  with  his 
hand. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  soldo?"  growled 
Francesco,  scrutinizing  the  pieces,  "isn't  it  good?" 

"Good  enough,  perhaps,  for  beggars,  signore, 
and  good  enough,  no  doubt,  for  Nicolletti.  But  it 
lacks  the  stamp  of  the  Castellani.  Hand  it  to  me, 
please,  and  I  will  put  the  mark  of  my  guild  upon 
it.  Look,  good  Signore  Francesco  !" 

As  he  spoke,  Luigi  caught  the  coin  between  his 
thumb  and  forefinger,  clutched  it  with  a  grip  of 
steel,  and  with  a  twist  of  his  thumb  bent  the  copper 
soldo  to  the  shape  of  a  watch  crystal ! 
140 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

"That  kind  of  a  soldo,  signore,"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone,  as  he  tossed  the  concave  coin  back  upon 
the  table.  "Match  it,  please!  Here,  try  your  fin 
gers  on  my  coin!  Come,  I  am  waiting.  You  do  not 
answer,  Signore  Francesco.  Why  did  you  send  for 
me,  then?  Had  I  known  that  your  money  was  not 
ready  I  would  not  have  left  my  caffe.  Perhaps,  how 
ever,  some  other  distinguished  Nicolletti  can  find 
some  money  good  enough  with  which  to  bet  a  Cas- 
tellani,"  and  he  looked  about  him.  "No  ?  I  am  sorry, 
gentlemen,  very  sorry.  Addio !"  and  he  picked  up 
the  bent  coin,  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  bowed  like 
a  doge  to  the  room,  and  passed  out  through  the 
door. 

In  the  dense  mass  that  lined  the  wall  of  the 
Public  Gardens  a  girl  and  her  lover  stood  with 
anxious  eyes  and  flushed,  hot  cheeks,  watching  the 
home-stretch  of  the  two  contestants. 

Francesco  and  Luigi,  cheered  by  the  shouts  of  a 

thousand  throats,  had  reached  the  stake-boat  off 

the  Lido  and  were  now  swinging  back  to  the  goal 

of  the  Garden  wall,  both  bending  to  their  blades, 

141 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Luigi  half  a  length  behind,  Francesco  straining 
every  nerve.  Waves  of  red  and  of  gold — the  colors 
of  the  two  guilds — surged  and  flashed  from  out  the 
mass  of  spectators  as  each  oarsman  would  gain  or 
lose  an  inch. 

Behind  the  lover  and  the  girl  stood  the  girl's 
mother,  her  black  shawl  twisted  into  a  scarf. 
This  she  waved  as  heartily  as  the  youngest  about 
her. 

"Don't  cry,  you  fools !"  she  stopped  long  enough 
to  shout  in  Amalia's  ear.  "It  is  his  old  way.  Wait 
till  he  reaches  the  red  buoy.  Ah!  what  did  I  tell 
you!  Luigi!  Luigi!  Bravo  Castellani!  See,  Marco 
— see !  Ah,  Signore  Francesco,  your  wind  is  gone,  is 
it  ?  You  should  nurse  bambinos  with  those  big  arms 
of  yours.  Ah,  look  at  him !  Amalia,  what  did  I  tell 
you,  you  two  fools !" 

Marco  did  not  answer.  He  was  holding  on  to 
the  marble  coping  of  the  wall,  his  teeth  set,  his  lips 
quivering,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Francesco's  body  in  sil 
houette  against  the  glistening  sea.  Luigi's  long 
swing,  rhythmical  as  a  machine's,  graceful  as  the 
curves  of  a  wind  sail,  did  not  seem  to  interest  him. 


SOLDO     OF     THE     CASTELLANI 

The  boy  had  made  his  bet,  and  he  would  abide  by 
it,  but  he  would  not  tell  the  mother  until  the  race 
was  won.  He  had  had  enough  of  her  tongue. 

Suddenly  Luigi  clenched  his  thumb  and  fore 
finger  tight  about  the  handle  of  his  oar,  and  wTith 
the  sweep  of  a  yacht  gaining  her  goal  headed 
straight  for  the  stake-post,  in  full  sight  of  the 
thousands  lining  the  walls. 

A  great  shout  went  up.  Red  flags,  red  parasols, 
rags,  blankets,  anything  that  told  of  Luigi's  col 
ors,  rose  and  fluttered  in  the  sunlight. 

"Primo!  Primo!"  yelled  the  crowd.  "Viva  Cas- 
tellani !  Viva  Zanaletto  !" 

Then,  while  the  whole  concourse  of  people  held 
their  breaths,  their  hearts  in  their  mouths,  Luigi 
with  his  fingers  turned  to  steel,  shot  past  Francesco 
with  the  dash  of  a  gull,  and  amid  the  shouts  of 
thousands  lifted  his  victorious  hat  to  the  multitude. 

For  the  first  time  in  sixty  years  the  same  pair 
of  arms  had  won  five  races ! 

Luigi  was  Primo  and  the  Castellani  the  victors 
of  the  sea. 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

When  Luigi's  boat  had  reached  the  main  land 
ing  of  the  Gardens  and  he  had  mounted  the  great 
flight  of  marble  steps,  a  hundred  hands  held  out 
to  him  joyous  welcome.  Amalia,  who  had  forced 
her  way  to  his  side,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Did  the  boy  bet,  child?"  he  asked,  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  face. 

"Yes,  signore." 

"On  Francesco?" 

"No,  dear  Luigi,  on  you !  Oh,  I  am  so  happy !" 

"And  what  changed  his  mind?" 

"The  soldo !" 

"The  soldo !  That  makes  me  happy,  too.  Add  it 
to  your  dowry,  child,"  and  he  placed  the  coin  in 
her  hand. 

She  wears  it  now  as  a  charm.  The  good  priest 
blessed  it  with  her  wedding-ring. 


144 


A    POINT     OF     HONOR 


A    POINT     OF     HONOR 
I 

Jl  HE  omnibus  stopped  in  the  garden,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  at  the  porch  of  the  hotel  opening  into 
the  garden.  Not  the  ordinary  omnibus  with  a  flap 
ping  door  fastened  with  a  strap  leading  to  the 
boot-leg  of  the  man  on  top,  a  post-office  box  in 
side  with  a  glass  front,  holding  a  smoky  kerosene 
lamp,  and  two  long  pew-cushioned  seats  placed  so 
close  together  that  everybody  rubs  everybody  else's 
knees  when  it  is  full ;  not  that  kind  of  an  omnibus 
at  all,  but  a  wide,  low,  yellow-painted  (yellow  as 
a  canary),  morocco-cushioned,  go-to-the-theatre-in 
kind  of  an  omnibus  drawn  by  a  pair  of  stout  Nor 
mandy  horses,  with  two  men  in  livery  on  the  box  in 
front  and  another  on  the  lower  step  behind  who 
helps  you  in  and  out  and  takes  your  bundles  and 
does  any  number  of  delightful  and  courteous 
things. 

147 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

This  yellow-painted  chariot,  moreover,  was  just 
the  kind  of  a  vehicle  that  should  have  moved  in  and 
out  of  this  flower-decked  garden.  Not  only  did  its 
color  harmonize  with  the  surroundings — quite  as  a 
mass  of  yellow  nasturtiums  harmonizes  with  the 
peculiar  soft  green  of  its  leaves — but  its  appoint 
ments  were  quite  in  keeping  with  the  luxury  and 
distinction  of  the  place.  For  only  millionnaires 
and  princes,  and  people  who  travel  with  valets  and 
maids,  and  now  and  then  a  staid  old  painter  like 
myself  who  is  willing  to  be  tucked  away  anywhere, 
but  whose  calling  is  supposed  to  lend  eclat  to  the 
register,  are  ever  to  be  found  there. 

The  omnibus,  then,  stopped  at  the  hotel  porch 
and  in  front  of  the  manager,  who  stood  with  a 
bunch  of  telegrams  in  his  hand.  Behind  him  smiled 
the  clerk,  and  on  his  right  bowed  the  Lord  High 
Porter  in  gold  lace  and  buttons :  everything  is  done 
in  the  best  and  most  approved  style  at  the  Baur  au 
Lac  in  Zurich. 

"Did  you  telegraph,  sir?  No?  Well — let — me — 
see —  Ah,  yes!  I  remember — you  were  here  last 
year.  Number  13,  Fritz,  on  the  second  floor"  (this 
148 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

to  a  boy),  and  the  manager  passed  on  and  saluted 
the  other  passengers — two  duchesses  in  silk  dusters, 
a  count  in  a  straw  hat  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  two 
Italian  nobleman  in  low  collars  and  mustaches.  At 
least,  they  must  have  been  noblemen  or  something 
better,  judging  from  the  profundity  of  the  man 
ager's  bow  and  the  alacrity  with  which  Fritz,  the 
boy,  let  go  my  bag  and  picked  up  three  of  theirs. 

Another  personage  now  stepped  up — a  little  man 
with  the  eyes  of  a  fox — a  courier  wrhom  I  had  not 
seen  for  years. 

;  "Why,  Joseph!  where  did  you  drop  from?"  I 
asked. 

"From  the  Engadine,  my  Lord,  and  I  hope  your 
Lordship  is  most  well." 

"Pretty  well,  Joseph.  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"It  is  an  Englishman — a  lame  Englishman — a 
matter  of  two  weeks  only.  And  you,  my  Lord?" 

"Just  from  Venice,  on  my  way  back  to  Paris,"  I 
answered. 

By  this  time  the  manager  was  gazing  with  his 
eyes  twice  their  size,  and  the  small  boy  was  stand- 
149 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

ing  in  the  middle  of  a  heap  of  bags,  wondering 
which  one  of  the  nobilities  (including  myself)  he 
would  serve  first. 

Joseph  had  now  divested  me  of  my  umbrella 
and  sketch-trap  and  was  facing  the  manager. 

"Did  I  hear  that  thirteen  was  the  number  of 
his  Lordship's  room?"  he  inquired  of  that  gentle 
man.  "I  will  myself  go.  Give  me  the  bag"  (this  to 
the  boy).  "This  way,  my  Lord."  And  he  led  the 
way  through  the  cool  hall  filled  with  flowering 
plants  and  up  a  staircase  panelled  with  mirrors. 
I  followed  contentedly  behind. 

v>  Joseph  and  I  are  old  acquaintances.  In  my 
journey  ings  around  Europe  I  frequently  run  across 
him.  He  and  I  have  had  some  varied  experiences  to 
gether  in  our  time — the  first  in  Milan  at  the  Hotel 
Imperial.  A  young  bride  and  groom,  friends  of 
mine — a  blue-eyed,  sweet-faced  young  girl  with 
a  husband  but  one  year  her  senior  (the  two  with  a 
£2,000  letter  of  credit,  the  gift  of  a  doting  father) 
• — had  wired  for  rooms  for  the  night  at  the  Im 
perial.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock  when  the  couple 
drove  up  in  one  of  those  Italian  hacks  cut  low-neck 
150 


A     POINT    OF    HONOR 

— a  landau  really — with  coachman  and  footman  on 
the  box,  and  Joseph  in  green  gloves  and  a  silk  hat 
on  the  front  seat.  My  personal  salutations  over,  we 
all  mounted  the  stairs,  preceded  by  the  entire  staff 
with  the  proprietor  at  their  head.  Here  on  the  first 
landing  we  were  met  by  two  flunkeys  in  red  and  a 
blaze  of  electric  light  which  revealed  five  rooms.  In 
one  was  spread  a  game  supper  with  every  variety 
of  salad  known  to  an  Italian  lunch-counter;  in 
another — the  salon — stood  a  mass  of  roses  the  size 
and  shape  of  an  oleander  in  full  bloom ;  then  came 
a  huge  bedroom,  a  bathroom  and  a  boudoir. 

The  groom,  young  as  he  was,  knew  how  little 
was  left  of  the  letter  of  credit.  The  bride  did  not. 
Neither  did  Joseph. 

"What's  all  this  for,  Hornblend?"  asked  the 
groom,  casting  his  eyes  about  in  astonishment. 
Hornblend  is  the  other  half  of  Joseph's  name. 

"For  Monsieur  and  Madame." 

"What,  for  one  night?'9 

Joseph  worked  both  shoulders  and  extended  his 
red  fingers — he  had  removed  his  gloves — till  they 
looked  like  two  bunches  of  carrots. 
151 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Does  it  not  Monsieur  please?" 

"Please!  Do  you  think  I'm  a  royal  family?" 

The  carrots  collapsed,  the  shoulders  stopped,  and 
a  pained  expression  overspread  Joseph's  counte 
nance.  The  criticisms  had  touched  his  heart. 

The  groom  and  I  put  our  heads  together — mine 
is  gray,  and  I  have  seen  many  couriers  in  my  time. 
His  was  blond  and  curly,  and  Joseph  was  his  first 
experience. 

I  beckoned  to  the  proprietor. 

"Who  ordered  this  suite  of  rooms  and  all  this 
tomfoolery  ?" 

The  man  bowed  and  waved  his  hand  loftily 
toward  the  groom. 

"How?" 

"By  telegraph." 

"Let  me  see  the  despatch." 

One  of  the  functionaries — the  clerk — handed  me 
the  document. 

"Is  this  the  only  one?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  signed  'Joseph  Hornblend,'  you  see." 

"Yes." 

152 


A     POINT    OF    HONOR 

"Then  let  Hornblend  pay  for  it.  Now  be  good 
enough  to  show  these  young  people  to  a  bedroom, 
and  send  your  head-waiter  to  me.  We  will  all  dine 
downstairs  together  in  the  cafe." 

Since  that  night  in  Milan  Joseph  always  has 
called  me  "my  Lord." 

He  had  altered  but  little.  His  legs  were  perhaps 
more  bowed,  the  checks  of  his  trousers  a  trifle  larger, 
and  the  part  in  his  iron-gray  hair  less  regular  than 
in  the  old  days,  but  the  general  effect  was  the  same 
— the  same  flashy  waistcoat,  the  same  long  gold 
watch-chain  baited  with  charms,  the  same  shiny, 
bell-crown  silk  hat,  and  the  same  shade  of  green 
kid  gloves — same  pair,  I  think.  Nor  had  his  man 
ner  changed — that  cringing,  deferential,  attentive 
manner  which  is  so  flattering  at  first  to  the  unsus 
pecting  and  inexperienced,  and  so  positive  and  top 
lofty  when  his  final  accounts  are  submitted — partic 
ularly  if  they  are  disputed.  The  voice,  too,  had 
lost  none  of  its  soft,  purring  quality — a  church- 
whisper-voice  with  the  drone  of  the  organ  in  it. 

And  yet  withal  Joseph  is  not  a  bad  fellow.  Once 
153 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

he  knows  the  size  of  your  pocket-book  he  willingly 
adapts  his  expenditures  to  its  contents.  Ofttimes,  it 
is  true,  there  is  nothing  left  but  the  pocket-book, 
but  then  some  couriers  would  take  that.  When  he  is 
in  doubt  as  to  the  amount,  he  tries  experiments.  I 
have  learned  since  that  the  lay-out  for  the  bride 
and  groom  that  night  in  Milan  was  only  one  of  his 
experiments — the  proprietor  being  co-conspirator. 
The  coach  belonged  to  the  hotel ;  the  game  supper 
was  moved  up  from  the  restaurant,  and  the  flowers 
had  been  left  over  from  a  dinner  the  night  before. 
Had  they  all  done  duty,  Joseph's  commissions 
would  have  been  that  much  larger.  As  it  was,  he  col 
lected  his  percentage  only  on  the  coach  and  the  two 
men  on  the  box  and  the  flunkeys  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  These  had  been  used.  The  other  preparations 
were  only  looked  at. 

Then  again,  Joseph  not  only  speaks  seven  lan 
guages,  but  he  speaks  them  well — for  Joseph — 
so  much  so  that  a  stranger  is  never  sure  of  his 
nationality. 

"Are  you  French,  Joseph?"  I  once  asked  him. 

"No." 

154 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

"Dutch?" 

"No." 

"What,  then?" 

"I  am  a  Jew  gentleman  from  Germany." 

He  lied,  of  course.  He's  a  Levantine  from  Con 
stantinople,  with  Greek,  Armenian,  Hindu,  and  per 
haps  some  Turkish  blood  in  his  veins.  This  com 
bination  insures  him  good  temper,  capacity,  and 
imagination — not  a  bad  mixture  for  a  courier.  Be 
sides,  he  is  reasonably  honest — not  punctiliously  so 
— not  as  to  francs,  perhaps,  but  certainly  as  to 
fifty-pound  notes — that  is,  he  was  while  he  served 
me.  Of  course,  I  never  had  a  fifty-pound  note — 
not  all  at  once — but  if  I  had  had  I  don't  think  he 
would  have  absorbed  it — not  if  I  had  signed  it 
on  the  back  for  identification  and  had  kept  it  in 
a  money-belt  around  my  waist  and  close  to  my 
skin. 

Those  things,  however,  never  trouble  me.  I  don't 
want  to  make  a  savings-bank  of  Joseph.  It  is  his 
vivid  imagination  that  appeals  to  me,  or  perhaps 
the  picturesqueness  with  which  he  puts  things.  In 
this  he  is  a  veritable  master.  His  material,  too,  is 
155 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

not  only  uncommonly  rich,  but  practically  inex 
haustible.  He  knows  everybody;  has  travelled  with 
everybody ;  has  always  kept  one  ear  and  one  eye 
open  even  when  asleep,  and  has  thus  picked  up  an 
immense  amount  of  information  regarding  people 
and  events — mostly  his  own  patrons — the  telling  of 
which  has  served  to  enliven  many  a  quiet  hour  while 
he  sat  beside  me  as  I  painted.  Why,  once  I  remem 
ber  in  Stamboul,  when  some  Arabs  had 

But  I  forget  that  I  am  following  Joseph  up 
stairs,  and  that  his  mission  is  to  see  that  I  am  com 
fortably  lodged  at  the  Baur  au  Lac  in  Zurich. 

When  we  reached  the  second  floor  Joseph  met  the 
porter  emerging  into  the  corridor  with  my  large 
luggage.  He  had  mounted  the  back  stairs. 

"Let  me  see  Number  13,  porter,"  cried  Joseph. 
"Ah,  yes — it  is  just  as  I  supposed.  Is  it  in  that  hole 
you  would  put  my  Lord — where  there  is  noise  all 
the  time?  You  see  that  window,  my  Lord?"  (By 
this  time  I  had  reached  the  two  disputants  and  had 
entered  the  room. )  "You  remember,  your  Highness, 
that  enormous  omnibus  in  which  you  have  arrived 
just?  It  is  there  that  it  sleeps."  And  Joseph  craned 
156 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

his  head  out  of  the  window  and  pointed  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  court-yard.  "When  it  goes  out  in  the 
morning  at  seven  o'clock  for  the  train  it  is  like 
thunder.  The  Count  Monflot  had  this  room.  You 
should  have  seen  him  when  he  was  awoke  at 
seven.  He  was  like  a  crazy  man.  He  pulled  all 
the  strings  out  of  the  bells,  and  when  the  waiter 
come  he  had  the  hat-box  of  Monsieur  the  Count 
at  his  head." 

Dismissing  the  apartment  with  a  contemptuous 
wave  of  his  hand,  Joseph,  with  the  porter's  assist 
ance,  who  had  a  pass-key,  began  a  search  of  the 
other  vacant  rooms:  half  the  hotel  was  vacant,  I 
afterward  learned ;  all  this  telegram  and  book  busi 
ness  was  merely  an  attempt  to  bolster  up  the  declin 
ing  days  of  a  bad  season. 

"Number  21?  No— it  is  a  little  better,  but  it's  too 
near  the  behind  stairs.  It  would  be  absurd  to  put 
his  Lordship  there.  Number  24?" — here  he  looked 
into  another  room.  "No,  you  can  hear  the  grande 
baggage  in  the  night  going  up  and  down.  No,  it 
will  not  do." 

The  manager,  having  disposed  of  the  other  mem- 
157 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

bers  of  the  Emperor's  household,  now  approached 
with  a  servile  smile  fitted  to  all  parts  of  his  face. 
Joseph  attacked  him  at  once. 

"Is  his  Lordship  a  valet,  Monsieur,  that  you 
should  put  him  in  such  holes?  Do  you  not  know 
that  he  never  wakes  until  ten,  and  has  his  coffee  at 
eleven,  and  the  omnibus,  you  know,  sleeps  there?" 
And  he  pointed  outside.  (Another  Levantine  lie: 
I  am  up  at  seven  when  the  light  is  right.) 

Here  the  porter  unlocked  another  room  and  stood 
by  smiling.  He  knew  the  game  was  up  now,  and  had 
reserved  this  one  for  the  last. 

"Number — 28!  Ah,  this  is  something  like.  Yes, 
my  Lord,  this  will  be  quite  right.  La  Contessa 
Moriarti  had  this  room — yes,  I  remember."  (Joseph 
never  serves  any  woman  below  the  rank  of  con- 
tessa. ) 

So  I  moved  into  Number  28,  handed  Joseph  the 
keys,  and  the  porter  deposited  my  luggage  and 
withdrew,  followed  by  the  manager.  Soon  the  large 
and  small  trunks  were  disembowelled,  my  sponge 
hung  on  a  nail  in  the  window,  and  the  several  toilet 
articles  distributed  in  their  proper  places,  Joseph 
158 


A     POINT    OF    HONOR 

serving  in  the  triple  capacity  of  courier,  valet,  and 
chambermaid — the  lame  Englishman  being  out 
driving,  and  Joseph,  therefore,  having  this  hour  to 
himself.  This  distribution,  of  course,  was  made  in 
deference  to  my  exalted  rank  and  the  ten-franc 
gold  piece  which  he  never  fails  to  get  despite  my 
resolutions,  and  which  he  always  seems  to  have 
earned  despite  my  knowledge  as  to  how  the  trick  is 
performed. 

Suddenly  a  crash  sounded  through  the  hall  as 
if  somebody  had  dropped  a  tray  of  dishes.  Then 
came  another,  and  another.  Either  every  waiter  in 
the  house  was  dropping  trays,  or  an  attack  was 
being  made  on  the  pantry  by  a  mob. 

Joseph,  with  a  bound,  threw  back  the  door  and 
we  rushed  out. 

Just  opposite  my  room  was  a  small  salon  with  the 
door  wide  open.  In  its  centre  stood  a  man  with  an 
iron  poker  in  his  hand.  He  was  busy  smashing  what 
was  left  of  a  large  mirror,  its  pieces  littering  the 
floor.  On  the  sofa  lay  another  man  twice  the  size  of 
the  first  one,  who  was  roaring  with  laughter.  Down 
the  corridor  swooped  a  collection  of  guests,  porters, 
159 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

and  chambermaids  in  full  cry,  the  manager  at  their 
head. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  eh — for  a  look 
ing-glass  worth  twenty  francs?"  I  heard  the  man 
with  the  poker  shout.  "I  blister  with  my  gas-j  et  one 
little  corner,  and  I  must  pay  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs.  I  have  ruined  the  mirror,  have  I,  eh?  And 
it  must  be  thrown  out  and  a  new  one  put  in  to 
morrow — eh?"  Bang!  bang!  Here  the  poker  came 
down  on  some  small  fragment  still  clinging  to  the 
frame.  "Yes,  it  will  come  out  [bang!] — all  of  it 
will  come  out." 

The  manager  was  now  trying  to  make  himself 
heard.  Such  words  as  "my  mirror,"  "outrage," 
"Gendarme,"  could  be  heard  above  the  sound  of 
the  breaking  glass  and  the  shrieks  of  the  man  on 
the  sofa,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  paroxysm  of 
laughter. 

I  looked  on  for  a  moment.  Some  infuriated 
lodger,  angry,  perhaps,  at  the  overcharge  in  his 
bill,  was  venting  his  wrath  on  the  furniture.  It  was 
not  my  mirror,  and  it  was  not  my  bill ;  the  manager 
was  present  with  staff  enough  to  throw  both  men 
160 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

downstairs  if  he  pleased  and  without  my  assistance, 
and  so  I  turned  and  reentered  my  room.  Two 
things  fixed  themselves  in  my  mind:  the  alert  fig 
ure,  trim  as  a  fencer's,  of  the  man  with  the  poker, 
and  the  laugh  of  the  fat  man  sprawling  on  the 
lounge. 

Joseph  followed  me  into  my  room  and  shut  the 
door  softly  behind  him. 

"Ah,  I  knew  it  was  he.  No  other  man  is  so  crazy 
like  that.  He  would  break  the  head  of  the  pro- 
prietaire  just  the  same.  That  is  an  old  swindle. 
That  mirror  has  been  cracked  four — five — six  times. 
The  gas-jet  is  fixed  so  that  you  must  crack  it.  All 
the  mirrors  like  the  one  he  burnt — it  was  only  a 
little  spot — go  upstairs  in  the  cheap  rooms  and 
new  ones  are  brought  in  for  such  games.  'Most 
always  they  pay,  but  monsieur — it  is  not  like  him 
to  pay.  He  has  heard  of  the  trick,  perhaps — is  it 
not  delicious?"  and  Joseph's  face  widened  into  a 
grin. 

"You  know  him,  then?"  I  broke  in. 

"Know  him? — oh,  for  many  years.  He  is  the 
great  Doctor  Barsac.  He  smashes  everything  he 
161 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

doesn't  like.  He  smashed  that  old  fat  monsieur  who 
made  so  much  laugh.  His  name  is  Mariguy.  He 
looks  like  a  cure,  does  he  not  ?  But  he  is  not  a  cure ; 
he  is  an  advocate.  Barsac  is  from  Basle,  but  Mari 
guy  lives  in  Paris.  Those  two  are  never  separated ; 
they  love  each  other  like  a  man  and  a  wife.  There 
is  a  great  medical  convention  here  in  Zurich,  and 
Barsac  has  brought  Mariguy  with  him  to  show  him 
off.  He  put  a  new  silver  stomach  in  Mariguy  last 
winter  and  is  very  proud  of  it.  It  is  the  great  opera 
tion  of  the  year,  they  say." 

"What  happened  to  the  fat  man,  Joseph — was 
it  an  accident?" 

"No — a  duel.  Barsac  ran  him  through  the  belly 
with  his  sword." 

"Permit  me,  my  Lord — "  And  Joseph  stepped 
to  the  window.  "Yes,  there  comes  the  lame  English 
man  home  from  the  drive.  Excuse  me — I  will  go 
and  help  him  from  his  carriage."  And  Joseph  bowed 
himself  out  backward. 


162 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 


II 


Joseph's  departure  left  my  mind  in  an  un 
settled  state.  I  hadn't  the  slightest  interest  in  the 
great  surgeon  who  had  made  the  cure  of  the  year, 
nor  in  the  stout  advocate  with  his  nickel-plated  di 
gestive  apparatus.  Both  of  them  might  have  broken 
every  mirror  in  the  hotel  and  have  thrown  the  frag 
ments  out  of  the  window,  and  the  manager  after 
them,  without  raising  my  pulse  a  beat.  Neither  did 
the  medical  convention  nor  the  doctor's  exhibit 
cause  me  a  moment's  thought.  Such  things  were 
commonplace  and  of  every-day  occurrence.  Only 
the  dramatic  in  life  appeals  to  so  staid  and  gray  an 
old  painter  as  myself,  and  even  Joseph's  pictur 
esque  imagination  could  not  imbue  either  one  of 
the  incidents  of  the  morning  with  that  desirable 
quality. 

What  really  did  appeal  to  me  as  I  conjured  up 
in  my  mind  the  picture  of  the  fat  man  sprawled 
over  the  sofa-cushions  roaring  with  laughter  was 
163 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

the  duel  and  the  causes  that  led  up  to  it.  Why,  if 
the  man  was  his  friend,  had  the  doctor  selected  the 
hilarious  advocate  as  an  antagonist,  and  what  could 
have  induced  the  surgeon  to  pick  out  that  partic 
ular  section  of  his  friend's  surface  in  which  to 
insert  his  sword. 

That  same  night,  in  the  smoking-room  of  the 
hotel,  Joseph  caught  sight  of  me  as  he  passed  the 
open  door  and  moved  forward  to  my  table.  He  had 
changed  his  dress  of  the  morning,  discarding  the 
inflammatory  waistcoat,  and  was  now  upholstered  in 
a  full  suit  of  black.  He  explained  that  there  were 
some  friends  of  his  living  in  the  village  who  were 
going  to  have  some  music.  The  Englishman  was  in 
bed  and  asleep,  and  now  that  he  was  sure  that  I 
was  comfortable,  he  could  give  himself  some  little 
freedom,  with  his  mind  at  rest.. 

I  motioned  him  to  a  seat. 

He  laid  his  silk  hat  and  one  glove  on  an  adjoin 
ing  table,  spread  his  coat-tails,  and  deposited  him 
self  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair — a  position 
which  would  enable  him  to  regain  his  feet  at  a  mo 
ment's  notice  should  any  of  my  friends  chance  to 
164 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

join  me.  It  is  just  such  delicate  recognition  of  my 
rank  and  lordly  belongings  that  makes  Joseph's 
companionship  ofttimes  a  pleasure. 

"You  tell  me,  Joseph,  that  that  crazy  doctor 
stabbed  the  fat  man  in  a  duel." 
,  "Not  stabbed,  my  Lord!  That  is  not  the  nice 
word.  It  was  done  so — so — so."  And  Joseph's  wrist, 
holding  an  imaginary  sword,  performed  the  grand 
thrust  in  the  air.  "He  is  a  master  with  the  rapier. 
When  he  was  at  the  Sorbonne  he  had  five  duels  and 
never  once  a  scratch.  His  honor  was  most  para 
mount.  He  would  fight  with  anybody,  and  for  the 
smallest  thing — if  one  man  had  a  longer  cane,  or 
wore  a  higher  hat,  or  took  cognac  in  his  coffee.  Not 
for  the  grisette  or  for  the  cards  in  the  face ;  not 
so  big  a  thing  as  that ;  quite  a  small  thing  that  no 
body  would  remember  a  moment.  And  with  his 
friends  always — never  with  the  man  he  did  not 
before  know." 

"And  was  the  fat  man  his  friend?" 
"His    friend !    Mon    Dieu !    they    were   like   the 
brothers.    One — two — five   year,   I   think — all  the 
whole  time  of  the  instruction.  I  was  not  there,  of 
165 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

course,  but  a  friend  of  mine  tell  me — a  most  truth 
ful  man,  my  friend." 

"What  was  the  row  about?  Cognac  in  his 
coffee?" 

"I  do  not  know — perhaps  somethings.  Yes,  I 
do  remember  now.  It  was  the  cutting  of  the  hair. 
Barsac  like  it  short  and  Mariguy  like  it  long.  Bar- 
sac  tried  to  cut  the  hair  from  Mariguy's  head  when 
he  was  asleep,  and  then  it  began.  It  was  in  that 
little  wood  at  the  bridge  at  Suresne  that  they  went 
to  fight.  You  know  you  turn  to  the  right  and  there 
is  a  little  place — all  small  trees — there  it  was. 

"When  they  all  got  ready,  there  quickly  arrive  a 
carriage  all  dust,  and  the  horse  in  a  sweat,  and  out 
jumps  an  old  lady — it  was  Mariguy's  mother. 
Somebody  had  told  her — not  Mariguy,  of  course, 
but  some  student.  'Stop !'  she  cried ;  'you  do  not  my 
son  kill.  You,  Barsac,  you  do  nothing  but  fight!' 
Then  they  all  talk,  and  Mariguy  say  to  Barsac,  'It 
cannot  be;  my  mother,  as  you  see,  is  old.  There  is 
no  one  but  me.  If  I  am  wounded,  she  will  be  in  the 
bed  with  fright.  If  I  am  killed,  she  will  be  dead.  It 
is  my  mother,  you  see,  that  you  fight,  not  me.' 
166 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

"Barsac  take  off  his  hat  and  bow  to  madame." 
(Joseph  had  now  reached  for  his  own  and  was 
illustrating  the  incident  with  an  appropriate  gest 
ure.)  "'Madame  Mariguy,'  said  Barsac,  'I  make 
ten  thousand  pardons.  I  respect  the  devotion  of  the 
mother,'  and  he  went  back  to  Paris,  and  Mariguy 
got  into  the  carriage  and  go  away  with  the 
mother." 

"But,  Joseph,  of  course  that  was  not  the  last 
of  it?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord,  until  one  year  ago." 
"Why,  did  they  have  another  quarrel,  Joseph?" 
"No,  not  another — never  but  that  one.  The}' 
were  for  a  long  time  what  you  call  friends  of  the 
bosom.  Every  day  after  that  they  see  each  other, 
and  every  night  they  dine  at  the  Louis  d'Or  below 
the  Luxembourg.  Then  pretty  soon  the  doctor,  he 
have  to  take  his  degree  and  come  back  to  Basle  to 
live,  and  Monsieur  Mariguy  also  have  take  his 
degree  and  become  a  great  advocate  in  Paris. 
Every  week  come  a  letter  from  Barsac  to  Mariguy, 
and  one  from  Mariguy  to  Barsac." 

Joseph  stopped  in  his  narrative  at  this  point, 
167 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

noticing  perhaps  some  shade  of  incredulity  across 
my  countenance,  and  said  parenthetically:  "I  am 
quite  surprised,  my  Lord,  that  you  have  not  this 
heard  before.  It  was  quite  the  talk  of  Paris  at  the 
time.  No?  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  everything  as 
it  did  happen,  for  I  do  assure  you  that  it  is  most 
exciting. 

"All  this  time — it  was  quite  ten  years,  perhaps 
fifteen — not  one  word  does  Monsieur  Barsac  say  to 
Monsieur  Mariguy  about  the  insult  of  the  long 
hair.  All  the  time,  too,  they  are  together.  For  the 
summer  they  go  to  a  little  village  in  the  Swiss 
mountains,  and  for  the  winter  they  go  to  Nice,  and 
'most  every  night  they  play  a  little  at  the  tables. 
It  was  there  I  met  them. 

"One  morning  at  Basle  the  doctor  was  at  his 
table  eating  the  breakfast  when  the  newspaper  is 
put  on  the  side.  He  read  a  little  and  sip  his  coffee, 
and  then  he  read  a  little  more — all  this,  my  Lord, 
was  in  the  papers  at  the  time — I  am  quite  aston 
ished  that  you  have  not  seen  it — and  then  the  doctor 
make  a  loud  cry,  and  throw  the  paper  down,  run 
168 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

upstairs,  pack  his  bag,  jump  into  a  fiacre  and  go 
like  mad  to  the  station.  The  next  morning  he  is  in 
Paris,  and  at  the  house  of  his  friend  Mariguy.  In 
three  days  they  are  at  Suresne  again — not  in  the 
little  wood,  but  in  the  garden  of  Monsieur  Roche- 
fort,  who  was  his  second.  It  was  against  the  law  to 
go  into  the  little  wood  to  fight,  so  they  took  the 
nearest  place  to  their  old  meeting — a  small  senti 
ment,  you  see,  my  Lord,  which  Monsieur  the  Doc 
tor  always  enjoys. 

"They^  toss  up  for  the  sun,  and  Monsieur  Barsac 
he  gets  the  shade.  At  the  first  pass,  no  one  is  hurt. 
At  the  second,  Monsieur  Barsac  has  a  little  scratch 
on  his  wrist,  but  no  blood.  The  seconds  make 
inspection  most  careful.  They  regret  that  the 
encounter  must  go  on,  but  the  honor  is  not  yet 
satisfied.  At  the  third,  Monsieur  Mariguy  made  a 
misstep,  and  Monsieur  Barsac's  sword  go  into  Mon 
sieur  Mariguy's  shirt  and  come  out  at  Monsieur 
Mariguy's  back. 

"You  can  imagine  what  then  take  place.  Doctor 
Barsac  cry  in  a  loud  voice  that  his  honor  is  satisfied, 
169 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

and  the  next  moment  he  is  on  his  knees  beside  his 
friend.  Monsieur  Mariguy  is  at  once  put  in  the  bed, 
and  for  one — two — three  months  he  is  dead  one  day 
and  breathe  a  little  the  next.  Barsac  never  leave  the 
house  of  his  friend  Monsieur  Rochefort  one  moment 
— not  one  day  does  he  go  back  to  Basle.  Every 
night  he  is  by  the  bed  of  Monsieur  Mariguy.  Then 
comes  the  critical  moment.  Monsieur  Mariguy  must 
have  a  new  stomach;  the  old  one  is  like  a  stocking 
with  a  hole  in  the  toe.  Then  comes  the  great  tri 
umph  of  Monsieur  le  Docteur.  All  Paris  come  out 
to  see.  To  make  a  stomach  of  silver  is  to  make  one 
the  fool,  they  say.  The  old  doctors  shake  their 
heads,  but  Barsac  he  only  laugh.  In  one  more 
month  Monsieur  Mariguy  is  on  his  feet,  and  every 
day  walks  a  little  in  the  Bois  near  the  house  of 
Monsieur  Rochefort.  In  one  more  month  he  run, 
and  eat  himself  full  like  a  boy. 

"He  is  now  no  longer  the  great  advocate.  He 
is  the  example  of  Monsieur  Barsac.  That  is  why  he 
is  here  at  the  medical  convention.  They  arrived  only 
yesterday  and  leave  to-night.  If  you  turn  a  little, 
my  Lord,  you  can  see  into  the  other  room;  There 
170 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

they  sit  smoking. — Ah !  do  you  hear?  That  is  Mon 
sieur  Mariguy's  laugh.  Oh,  they  enjoy  themselves! 
They  have  drank  two  bottles  of  Johannisberger 
already — twenty-five  francs  each,  if  you  please,  my 
Lord.  The  head  waiter  showed  me  the  bottles.  But 
what  does  Barsac  care?  He  cut  everything  out  of 
the  insides  of  the  Prince  Morin  one  day  last  month, 
and  had  for  a  fee  fifty  thousand  francs  and  the 
order  of  St.  John." 

I  bent  my  head  in  the  direction  of  Joseph's  index 
finger  and  easily  recognized  the  two  men  at  the 
table.  The  smaller  man,  Barsac,  was  even  more  trim 
and  alert-looking  than  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  in  the  bedroom.  As  he  sat  and  talked  to  Mari- 
guy  he  looked  more  like  an  officer  in  the  French 
army  than  a  doctor.  His  hair  was  short,  his  mus 
tache  pointed,  and  his  beard  closely  trimmed.  He 
had  two  square  shoulders  and  a  slim  waist,  and 
talked  with  his  hands  as  if  they  were  part  of  his 
mental  equipment.  The  other  man,  Mariguy,  the 
"example,"  was  just  a  fat,  jolly,  good-natured 
Frenchman,  who  to  all  appearance  loved  a  bottle  of 
wine  better  than  he  did  a  brief. 
171 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Joseph  was  about  to  begin  again  when  I  stopped 
him  with  this  inquiry : 

"There  is  one  thing  in  your  story,  Joseph,  that 
I  don't  quite  get:  you  say  they  were  students 
together  ?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"That  the  first  duel — the  one  that  the  mother 
stopped — was  fifteen  years  ago?" 

"Quite  true,  my  Lord." 

"And  that  this  last  duel  was  fought  a  year  ago, 
and  that  all  that  time  they  were  together  whenever 
they  could  be,  and  devoted  friends?" 

"Every  word  true,  my  Lord." 

"Well,  then,  why  didn't  they  fight  before?" 

Joseph  looked  at  me  with  a  curious  expression 
on  his  face — one  rather  of  disappointment,  as  if 
I  had  utterly  failed  to  grasp  his  meaning. 

"Fight  before!  It  would  have  been  impossible, 
my  Lord.  Barsac's  honor  was  at  the  stake." 

"And  he  must  wait  fifteen  years,"  I  asked  with 
some  impatience,  "to  vindicate  it?" 

"Certainly,  my  Lord — or  twice  that  time  if  it 
was  necessary.  It  was  only  when  he  read  in  the 
172 


A    POINT    OF    HONOR 

paper  at  the  table  of  his  breakfast  that  morning  in 
Basle  that  he  knew." 

"What  difference  did  that  make?" 

"Every  difference,  my  Lord ;  Madame  Mariguy, 
the  mother,  was  only  the  day  before  dead." 


173 


SIMPLE     FOLK 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

A  long  reach  of  coast  country,  white  and  smooth, 
broken  by  undulating  fences  smothered  in  snow 
drifts,  only  their  stakes  and  bush-tops  showing; 
farther  away,  horizontal  markings  of  black  pines ; 
still  farther  away,  a  line  of  ragged  dunes  bearded 
with  yellow  grass  bordering  a  beach  flecked  with 
scurries  of  foam — mouthings  of  a  surf  twisting  as 
if  in  pain ;  beyond  this  a  wide  sea,  greenish  gray, 
gray  and  gray-blue,  slashed  here  and  there  with 
white-caps  pricked  by  wind  rapiers;  beyond  this 
again,  out  into  space,  a  leaden  sky  flat  as  paint 
and  as  monotonous. 

Nearer  by,  so  close  that  I  could  see  their  move 
ments  from  the  car  window,  spatterings  of  crows, 
and  higher  up  circling  specks  of  gulls  glinting  or 
darkening  as  their  breasts  or  backs  caught  the 
light.  These  crows  and  gulls  were  the  only  things 
alive  in  the  wintry  waste. 

No,  one  thing  more — two,  in  fact:  as  I  came 
nearer  the  depot,  a  horse  tethered  to  the  section 
177 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

of  the  undulating  fence,  a  rough-coated,  wind 
blown,  shackly  beast;  the  kind  the  great  Schreyer 
always  painted  shivering  with  cold  outside  a  stable 
door  (and  in  the  snow,  too),  and  a  man:  Please 
remember,  A  MAN !  And  please  continue  to  remem 
ber  it  to  the  end  of  this  story. 

Thirty-one  years  in  the  service  he — this  keeper 
of  the  Naukashon  Life-Saving  Station — twenty- 
five  at  this  same  post.  Six  feet  and  an  inch,  tough 
as  a  sapling  and  as  straight;  long-armed,  long- 
legged,  broad-shouldered  and  big-boned;  face 
brown  and  tanned  as  skirt  leather;  eye  like  a 
hawk's;  mouth  but  a  healed  scar,  so  firm  is  it; 
low-voiced,  simple-minded  and  genuine. 

If  you  ask  him  what  he  has  done  in  all  these 
thirty-one  years  of  service  he  will  tell  you: 

"Oh,  I  kind  o'  forget;  the  Superintendent  gets 
reports.  You  see,  some  months  we're  not  busy,  and 
then  ag'in  we  ain't  had  no  wrecks  for  considerable 
time." 

If  you  should  happen  to  look  in  his  locker,  away 
back  out  of  sight,  you  would  perhaps  find  a  small 
paper  box,  and  in  it  a  gold  medal — the  highest 
178 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

his  government  can  give  him — inscribed  with  his 
name  and  a  record  of  some  particular  act  of  hero 
ism.  When  he  is  confronted  with  the  tell-tale  evi 
dence,  he  will  say : 

"Oh,  yes — they  did  give  me  that!  I'm  keepin' 
it  for  my  grandson." 

If  you,  failing  to  corkscrew  any  of  the  details 
out  of  him,  should  examine  the  Department's  re 
ports,  you  will  find  out  all  he  "forgets" — among 
them  the  fact  that  in  his  thirty-one  years  of  ser 
vice  he  and  the  crew  under  him  have  saved  the  lives 
of  one  hundred  and  thirty-one  men  and  women  out 
of  a  possible  one  hundred  and  thirty-two.  He  ex 
plains  the  loss  of  this  unlucky  man  by  saying 
apologetically  that  "the  fellow  got  dizzy  somehow 
and  locked  himself  in  the  cabin,  and  we  didn't  know 
he  was  there  until  she  broke  up  and  he  got  washed 
ashore." 

This  was  the  man  who,  when  I  arrived  at  the 
railroad  station,  held  out  a  hand  in  hearty  welcome, 
his  own  closing  over  mine  with  the  grip  of  a  cant- 
hook. 

"Well,  by  Jiminy !  Superintendent  said  you  was 
179 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

comin',  but  I  kind  o'  thought  you  wouldn't  'til  the 
weather  cleared.  Gimme  yer  bag — Yes,  the  boys 
are  all  well  and  will  be  glad  to  see  ye.  Colder  than 
blue  blazes,  ain't  it?  Snow  ain't  over  yet.  Well, 
well,  kind  o'  natural  to  see  ye !" 

The  bag  was  passed  up;  the  Captain  caught 
the  reins  in  his  crab-like  fingers,  and  the  bunch  of 
wind-blown  fur,  gathering  its  stiffened  legs  to 
gether,  wheeled  sharply  to  the  left  and  started  in 
to  make  pencil-markings  in  double  lines  over  the 
white  snow  seaward  toward  the  Naukashon  Life- 
Saving  Station. 

The  perspective  shortened:  first  the  smooth, 
unbroken  stretch;  then  the  belt  of  pines;  then  a 
flat  marsh  diked  by  dunes ;  then  a  cluster  of  black 
dots,  big  and  little — the  big  one  being  the  Station 
house,  and  the  smaller  ones  its  outbuildings  and 
fishermen's  shanties;  and  then  the  hard,  straight 
line  of  the  pitiless  sea. 

I  knew  the  "boys."  I  had  known  some  of  them 
for  years :  ever  since  I  picked  up  one  of  their  sta 
tions — its  site  endangered  by  the  scour  of  the  tide 
— ran  it  on  skids  a  mile  over  the  sand  to  the  land 
180 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

side  of  the  inlet  without  moving  the  crew  or  their 
comforts  (even  their  wet  socks  were  left  drying 
on  a  string  by  the  kitchen  stove)  ;  shoved  it  aboard 
two  scows  timbered  together,  started  out  to  sea 
under  the  guidance  of  a  light-draught  tug  in  search 
of  its  new  location  three  miles  away,  and  then,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  suddenly  developed  north-east 
gale,  backed  up  by  my  own  colossal  engineering 
skill,  dropped  the  whole  concern — skids,  house, 
kitchen  stove,  socks  and  all — into  the  sea.  When 
the  surf  dogs  were  through  with  its  carcass  the 
beach  was  strewn  with  its  bones  picked  clean  by 
their  teeth.  Only  the  weathercock,  which  had 
decorated  its  cupola,  was  left.  This  had  floated  off 
and  was  found  perched  on  top  of  a  sand-dune, 
whizzing  away  on  its  ornamental  cap  as  merry,  as 
a  jig-dancer.  It  was  still  whirling  away,  this  time 
on  the  top  of  the  cupola  at  Naukashon.  I  could 
see  it  plainly  as  I  drove  up,  its  arrow  due  east, 
looking  for  trouble  as  usual. 

Hence  my  friendship  for  Captain  Shortrode  and 
his  trusty  surfmen.  Hence,  too,  my  welcome  when 
I  pushed  in  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  and  caught 
181 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

the  smell  of  the  cooking:  Dave  Austin's  clam 
chowder — I  could  pick  it  out  anywhere,  even  among 
the  perfumes  of  a  Stamboul  kitchen;  and  hence, 
too,  the  hearty  hand-grasp  from  the  big,  brawny 
men  around  the  stove. 

"Well !  Kind  o'  summer  weather  you  picked  out ! 
Here,  take  this  chair — Gimme  yer  coat. — Git  them 
legs  o'  yourn  in,  Johnny.  He's  a  new  man — John 
Partridge ;  guess  you  ain't  met  him  afore.  Where's 
Captain  Shortrode  gone  ?  Oh,  yes ! — puttin'  up  old 
Moth-eaten.  Ain't  nothin'  he  thinks  as  much  of  as 
that  old  horse.  Oughter  pack  her  in  camphor.  Well, 
how's  things  in  New  York? — Nelse,  put  on  anoth 
er  shovel  of  coal — Yes,  colder'n  Christmas!  .  .  . 
Nothin'  but  nor'east  wind  since  the  moon  changed. 
.  .  .  Chowder! — Yes,  yer  dead  right;  Dave's 
cookin'  this  week,  and  he  said  this  mornin'  he'd 
have  a  mess  for  ye." 

A  stamping  of  feet  outside  and  two  bifurcated 
walruses  (four  hours  out  on  patrol)  pushed  in 
the  door.  Muffled  in  oilskins  these,  rubber-booted 
to  their  hips,  the  snow-line  marking  their  waists 
where  they  had  plunged  through  the  drifts;  their 
182 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

sou'-westers  tied  under  their  chins,  shading  beards 
white  with  frost  and  faces  raw  with  the  slash  of 
the  beach  wind. 

More  hand-shakes  now;  and  a  stripping  of  wet 
outer-alls;  a  wash-up  and  a  hair-smooth;  a  shout 
of  "Dinner!"  from  the  capacious  lungs  of  David 
the  cook;  a  silent,  reverential  grace  with  every 
head  bowed  (these  are  the  things  that  surprise  you 
until  you  know  these  men),  and  with  one  accord 
an  attack  is  made  upon  Dave's  chowder  and  his 
corn-bread  and  his  fried  ham  and  his —  Well,  the 
air  was  keen  and  bracing,  and  the  salt  of  the  sea 
a  permeating  tonic,  and  the  smell ! — Ah,  David !  I 
wish  you'd  give  up  your  job  and  live  with  me,  and 
bring  your  saucepan  and  your  griddle  and  your 
broiler  and — my  appetite ! 

The  next  night  the  Captain  was  seated  at  the 
table  working  over  his  monthly  report,  the  kerosene 
lamp  lighting  up  his  bronzed  face  and  falling  upon 
his  open  book.  There  is  nothing  a  keeper  hates 
to  do  so  much  as  making  out  monthly  reports ;  his 
hard,  horny  hand  is  shaped  to  grasp  an  oar,  not  a 
183 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

pen.  Four  other  men  were  asleep  upstairs  in  their 
bunks,  waiting  their  turns  to  be  called  for  patrol. 
Two  were  breasting  a  north-east  gale  howling  along 
the  coast,  their  Cost  on  signals  tightly  buttoned 
under  their  oilskins. 

Tom  Van  Brunt  and  I — Tom  knew  all  about  the 
little  kitchen  stove  and  the  socks — he  had  forgiven 
me  my  share  in  their  loss — were  tilted  back  against 
the  wall  in  our  chairs.  The  slop  and  rattle  of  Dave's 
dishes  came  in  through  the  open  door  leading  to 
the  kitchen.  Outside  could  be  heard  the  roar  and 
hammer  of  the  surf  and  the  shriek  of  the  baffled 
wind  trying  to  burglarize  the  house  by  way  of  the 
eaves  and  the  shutters. 

The  talk  had  drifted  to  the  daily  life  at  the 
Station ;  the  dreariness  of  waiting  for  something 
to  come  ashore  (in  a  disappointed  tone  from  Tom, 
as  if  he  and  his  fellow  surfmen  had  not  had  their 
share  of  wrecks  this  winter)  ;  of  the  luck  of  Number 
16,  in  charge  of  Captain  Elleck  and  his  crew,  who 
had  got  seven  men  and  a  woman  out  of  an  English 
bark  last  week  without  wetting  the  soles  of  their 
feet. 

184 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

"Fust  shot  went  for'd  of  her  chain  plates," 
Tom  explained,  "and  then  they  made  fast  and  come 
off  in  the  breeches-buoy.  Warn't  an  hour  after  she 
struck  'fore  they  had  the  hull  of  'em  up  to  the  Sta 
tion  and  supper  ready.  Heavy  sea  runnin'  too." 

Tom  then  shifted  his  pipe  and  careened  his  head 
my  way,  and  with  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  left  a 
ring  behind  it  which  vibrated  in  me  for  days,  and 
does  now,  said: 

"I've  been  here  for  a  good  many  years,  and  I 
guess  I'll  stay  here  long  as  the  Guv'ment'll  let  me. 
Some  people  think  we've  got  a  soft  snap,  and  some 
people  think  we  ain't.  'Tis  kind  o'  lonely,  some 
times — then  somethin'  comes  along  and  we  even  up ; 
but  it  ain't  that  that  hurts  me  really — it's  bein'  so 
much  away  from  home." 

Tom  paused,  rapped  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  on  his 
heel  to  clear  it,  twristed  his  body  so  that  he  could 
lay  the  precious  comfort  on  the  window-sill  behind 
him  safe  out  of  harm's  way,  and  continued : 

"Yes,  bein'  so  much  awTay  from  home.  I've  been 
a  surfman,  you  know,  goin'  on  thirteen  years,  and 
out  o'  that  time  I  ain't  been  home  but  two  year  and 
185 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

a  half  runnin'  the  days  solid,  which  they  ain't.  I 
live  up  in  Naukashon  village,  and  you  know  how 
close  that  is.  Cap'n  could  'a'  showed  you  my  house 
as  you  druv  'long  through — it's  just  across  the  way 
from  his'n." 

I  looked  at  Tom  in  surprise.  I  knew  that  the  men 
did  not  go  home  but  once  in  two  weeks,  and  then 
only  for  a  day,  but  I  had  not  summed  up  the  va 
cation  as  a  whole.  Tom  shifted  his  tilted  leg,  set 
tled  himself  firmer  in  his  chair,  and  went  on : 

"I  ain't  askin'  no  favors,  and  I  don't  expect  to 
git  none.  We  got  to  watch  things  down  here,  and 
we  dasn't  be  away  when  the  weather's  rough,  and 
there  ain't  no  other  kind  'long  this  coast ;  but  now 
and  then  somethin'  hits  ye  and  hurts  ye,  and  ye 
don't  forgit  it.  I  got  a  little  baby  at  home — seven 
weeks  old  now — hearty  little  feller — goin'  to  call 
him  after  the  Cap'n,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the 
man  scratching  away  with  his  pen.  "I  ain't  had  a 
look  at  that  baby  but  three  times  since  he  was  born, 
and  last  Sunday  it  come  my  turn  and  I  went  up 
to  see  the  wife  and  him.  My  brother  Bill  lives  with 
me.  He  lost  his  wife  two  year  ago,  and  the  baby 
186 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

she  left  didn't  live  more'n  a  week  after  she  died, 
and  so  Bill,  not  havin'  no  children  of  his  own, 
takes  to  mine — I  got  three." 

Again  Tom  stopped,  this  time  for  a  percept 
ible  moment.  I  noticed  a  little  quiver  in  his  voice 
now. 

"Well,  when  I  got  home  it  was  'bout  one  o'clock 
in  the  day.  I  been  on  patrol  that  mornin' — it  was 
snowin'  and  thick.  Wife  had  the  baby  up  to  the 
winder  waitin'  for  me,  and  they  all  come  out — 
Bill  and  my  wife  and  my  little  Susie,  she's  five 
year  old — and  then  we  all  went  in  and  sat  down, 
and  I  took  the  baby  in  my  arms,  and  it  looked  at 
me  kind  o'  skeered-like  and  cried;  and  Bill  held 
out  his  hands  and  took  the  baby,  and  he  stopped 
cryin'  and  laid  kind  o'  contented  in  his  arms,  and 
my  little  Susie  said,  'Pop,  I  guess  baby  thinks 
Uncle  Bill's  his  father.'  .  .  .  7 — tell — you — 
that— hurt!" 

As  the  last  words  dropped  from  Tom's  lips  two 

of  the  surfmen — Jerry  Potter  and  Robert  Saul, 

who  had  been  breasting  the  north-east  gale — pushed 

open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  and  peered  in, 

187 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

looking  like  two  of  Nansen's  men  just  off  an  ice 
floe.  Their  legs  were  clear  of  snow  this  time,  the 
two  having  brushed  each  other  off  with  a  broom  on 
the  porch  outside.  Jerry  had  been  exchanging 
brass  checks  with  the  patrol  of  No.  14,  three  miles 
down  the  beach,  and  Saul  had  been  setting  his  clock 
by  a  key,  locked  in  an  iron  box  bolted  to  a  post 
two  miles  and  a  half  away  and  within  sight  of  the 
inlet.  Tramping  the  beach  beside  a  roaring  surf 
in  a  north-east  gale  blowing  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  in  the  teeth  of  a  snow-storm  each  flake  cutting 
like  grit  from  a  whirling  grindstone,  was  to  these 
men  what  the  round  of  a  city  park  is  to  a  summer 
policeman. 

Jerry  peeled  off  his  waterproofs  from  head,  body, 
and  legs ;  raked  a  pair  of  felt  slippers  from  under 
a  chair;  stuck  his  stocking- feet  into  their  comfort 
ing  depths ;  tore  a  sliver  of  paper  from  the  end  of 
a  worn-out  journal,  twisted  it  into  a  wisp,  worked 
the  door  of  the  cast-iron  stove  loose  with  his 
marlin-spike  of  a  finger,  held  the  wisp  to  the  blaze, 
lighted  his  pipe  carefully  and  methodically;  tilted 
a  chair  back,  and  settling  his  great  frame  comfort- 
188 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

ably  between  its  arms,  started  in  to  smoke.  Saul 
duplicated  his  movements  to  the  minutest  detail, 
with  the  single  omission  of  those  connected  with 
the  pipe.  Saul  did  not  smoke. 

Up  to  this  time  not  a  word  had  been  spoken 
by  anybody  since  the  two  men  entered.  Men  who 
live  together  so  closely  dispense  with  "How  d'yes" 
and  "Good-bys."  I  was  not  enough  of  a  stranger 
to  have  the  rule  modified  on  my  account  after  the 
first  salutations. 

Captain  Shortrode  looked  up  from  his  report 
and  broke  the  silence. 

"That  sluice-way  cuttin'  in  any,  Jerry?" 

Jerry  nodded  his  head  and  replied  between  puffs 
of  smoke: 

"  'Bout  fifty  feet,  I  guess." 

The  grizzled  Captain  took  off  his  eye-glasses — 
he  only  used  them  in  making  up  his  report — laid 
them  carefully  beside  his  sheet  of  paper,  stretched 
his  long  legs,  lifting  his  body  to  the  perpendicular, 
dragged  a  chair  to  my  side  of  the  room,  and  said 
with  a  dry  chuckle: 

"I've  got  to  laugh  every  time  I  think  of  that 
189 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

sluice-way.  Last  month —  Warn't  it  last  month, 
Jerry?"  Jerry  nodded,  and  sent  a  curl  of  smoke 
through  his  ragged  mustache,  accompanied  by  the 
remark,  "Yes — last  month." 

The  Captain  continued : 

"Last  month,  I  say,  we  were  havin'  some  al 
mighty  high  tides,  and  when  they  git  to  cuttin' 
round  that  sluice-way  it  makes  it  bad  for  our 
beach-cart,  'specially  when  we've  got  to  keep 
abreast  of  a  wreck  that  ain't  grounded  so  we  can 
git  a  line  to  her;  so  I  went  down  after  supper  to 
see  how  the  sluice-way  was  comin'  on.  It  was  foggy, 
and  a  heavy  sea  runnin' — the  surf  showin'  white, 
but  everythin'  else  black  as  pitch.  Fust  thing  I 
knew  I  beared  somethin'  like  the  rattle  of  an  oar 
lock,  or  a  tally -block,  and  then  a  cheer  come  just 
outside  the  breakers.  I  run  down  to  the  swash  and 
listened,  and  then  I  seen  her  comin'  bow  on,  big  as 
a  house;  four  men  in  her  holdin'  on  to  the  gun 
nels,  hollerin'  for  all  they  was  worth.  I  got  to  her 
just  as  the  surf  struck  her  and  rolled  her  over  bot 
tom-side  up." 

"Were  you  alone?"  I  interrupted. 
190 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

"Had  to  be.  The  men  were  up  and  down  the 
beach  and  the  others  was  asleep  in  their  bunks. 
Well,  when  I  had  'em  all  together  I  run  'em  up 
on  the  beach  and  in  here  to  the  Station,  and  when 
the  light  showed  'em  up —  Well,  I  tell  ye,  one  of 
'em — a  nigger  cook — was  a  sight !  'Bout  seven  feet 
high,  and  thick  round  as  a  flag-pole,  and  blacker'n 
that  stove,  and  skeered  so  his  teeth  was  a-chatterin'. 
They'd  left  their  oyster  schooner  a-poundin'  out  on 
the  bar  and  had  tried  to  come  ashore  in  their  boat. 
Well,  we  got  to  work  on  'em  and  got  some  dry 
clo'es  on  'em,  and " 

"Were  you  wet,  too?"  I  again  interrupted. 

"Wet!  Soppin'!  I'd  been  under  the  boat  feelin' 
'round  for  'em.  Well,  the  King's  Daughters  had 
sent  some  clo'es  down,  and  we  looked  over  what  we 
had,  and  I  got  a  pair  of  high-up  pants,  and  Jerry, 
who  wears  Number  1£ — Don't  you,  Jerry?"  (Jerry 
nodded  and  puffed  on) — "had  an  old  pair  of  shoes, 
and  we  found  a  jacket,  another  high-up  thing  big 
'nough  to  fit  a  boy,  that  come  up  to  his  shoulder- 
blades,  and  he  put  'em  on  and  then  he  set  'round 
here  for  a  spell  dryin'  out,  with  his  long  black  legs 
191 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

stickin'  from  out  of  his  pants  like  handle-bars,  and 
his  hands,  big  as  hams,  pokin'  out  o'  the  sleeves  o' 
his  jacket.  We  got  laughin'  so  we  had  to  go  out  by 
ourselves  in  the  kitchen  and  have  it  out;  didn't 
want  to  hurt  his  feelin's,  you  know." 

The  Captain  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  laughed 
quietly  to  himself  at  the  picture  brought  back  to 
his  mind,  and  continued,  the  men  listening  quietly, 
the  smoke  of  their  pipes  drifting  over  the  room. 

"Next  mornin'  we  got  the  four  of  'em  all  ready 
to  start  off  to  the  depot  on  their  way  back  to  Phila- 
delphy — there  warn't  no  use  o'  their  stay  in',  their 
schooner  was  all  up  and  down  the  beach,  and  there 
was  oysters  'nought  'long  the  shore  to  last  every 
body  a  month.  Well,  when  the  feller  got  his  rig 
on  he  looked  himself  all  over,  and  then  he  said  he 
would  like  to  have  a  hat.  'Bout  a  week  before  Tom 
here  [Tom  nodded  now,  and  smiled]  had  picked 
up  on  the  beach  one  o'  these  high  gray  stovepipe 
hats  with  a  black  band  on  it,  blowed  overboard 
from  some  o'  them  yachts,  maybe.  Tom  had  it  up 
on  the  mantel  there  dry  in',  and  he  said  he  didn't 
care,  and  I  give  it  to  the  nigger  and  off  he  started, 
192 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

and  we  all  went  out  on  the  back  porch  to  see  him 
move.  Well,  sir,  when  he  went  up  'long  the  dunes 
out  here  toward  the  village,  steppin'  like  a  crane 
in  them  high-up  pants  and  jacket  and  them  Num 
ber  12s  of  Jerry's  and  that  hat  of  Tom's  'bout 
three  sizes  too  small  for  him,  I  tell  ye  he  was  a 


Jerry  and  Saul  chuckled,  and  Tom  broke  into  a 
laugh  —  the  first  smile  I  had  seen  on  Tom's  face 
since  he  had  finished  telling  me  about  the  little 
baby  at  home. 

I  laughed  too  —  outwardly  to  the  men  and  in 
wardly  to  myself  with  a  peculiar  tightening  of  the 
throat,  followed  by  a  glow  that  radiated  heat  as  it 
widened.  My  mind  was  not  on  the  grotesque  negro 
cook  in  the  assorted  clothes.  All  I  saw  was  a  man 
fighting  the  surf,  groping  around  in  the  blackness 
of  the  night  for  four  water-soaked,  terrified  men 
until  he  got  them,  as  he  said,  "all  together."  That 
part  of  it  had  never  appealed  to  the  Captain,  and 
never  will.  Pulling  drowning  men,  single-handed, 
from  a  boiling  surf,  was  about  as  easy  as  pulling 
gudgeons  out  of  a  babbling  brook. 
193 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

Saul  now  piped  up : 

"Oughter  git  the  Cap'n  to  tell  ye  how  he  got 
that  lady  ashore  last  winter  from  off  that  Jamaica 
brig." 

At  the  sound  of  Saul's  voice  Captain  Shortrode 
rose  quickly  from  his  chair,  picked  up  his  report 
and  spectacles,  and  with  a  deprecating  wave  of  his 
hand,  as  if  the  story  would  have  to  come  from  some 
other  lips  than  his  own,  left  the  room — to  "get  an 
envelope,"  he  said. 

"He  won't  come  back  for  a  spell,"  laughed  Jerry. 
"The  old  man  don't  like  that  yarn."  "Old  man" 
was  a  title  of  authority,  and  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  Captain's  fifty  years. 

I  made  no  comment — not  yet.  My  ears  were 
open,  of  course,  but  I  was  not  holding  the  tiller 
of  conversation  and  preferred  that  someone  else 
should  steer. 

Again  Saul  piped  up,  this  time  to  me,  reading 
my  curiosity  in  my  eyes : 

"Well,  there  warn't  nothin'  much  to  it,  'cept  the 
way  the  Cap'n  got  her  ashore,"  and  again  Saul 
chuckled  quietly,  this  time  as  if  to  himself.  "The 
194 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

beach  was  full  o'  shipyard  rats  and  loafers,  and 
when  they  heared  there  was  a  lady  comin'  ashore 
in  the  breeches-buoy,  more  of  'em  kept  comin'  in  on 
the  run.  We'd  fired  the  shot-line  and  had  the  anchor 
buried  and  the  hawser  fast  to  the  brig's  mast  and 
the  buoy  rigged,  and  we  were  just  goin'  to  haul 
in  when  Cap'n  looked  'round  on  the  crowd,  and  he 
see  right  away  what  they'd  come  for  and  what  they 
was  'spectin'  to  see.  Then  he  ordered  the  buoy 
hauled  back  and  he  got  into  the  breeches  himself, 
and  we  soused  him  through  the  surf  and  off  he  went 
to  the  brig.  He  showed  her  how  to  tuck  her  skirts 
in,  and  how  to  squat  down  in  the  breeches  'stead 
o'  stickin'  her  feet  through,  and  then  she  got 
skeered  and  said  she  couldn't  and  hollered,  and  so 
he  got  in  with  her  and  got  his  arms  'round  her  and 
landed  her,  both  of  'em  pretty  wet."  Saul  stopped 
and  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  I  was  evidently 
expected  to  say  something. 

"Well,  that  was  just  like  the  Captain,"  I  said, 
mildly,  "but  where  does  the  joke  come  in?" 

"Well,  there  warn't  no  joke,  really,"  remarked 
Saul  with  a  wink  around  the  room,  "  'cept  when  we 
195 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

untangled  'em.  She  was  'bout  seventy  years  old, 
and  black  as  tar.  That's  all !" 

It  seemed  to  be  my  turn  now — "the  laugh"  being 
on  me.  Captain  Shortrode  was  evidently  of  the 
same  opinion,  for,  on  reentering  the  room,  he  threw 
the  envelope  on  the  table,  and  settling  himself  again 
in  his  chair  looked  my  way,  as  if  expecting  the 
next  break  in  the  conversation  to  be  made  by  me. 
Two  surfmen,  who  had  been  asleep  upstairs,  now 
joined  the  group,  the  laughter  over  Saul's  story 
of  the  "lady"  having  awakened  them  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  their  time.  They  came  in  rubbing  their 
eyes,  their  tarpaulins  and  hip-boots  over  their  arms. 
Jerry,  Tom,  and  Saul  still  remained  tilted  back  in 
their  chairs.  They  should  have  been  in  bed  rest 
ing  for  their  next  patrol  (they  went  out  again 
at  four  A.M.),  but  preferred  to  sit  up  in  my 
honor. 

Dozens  of  stories  flashed  into  my  mind — the  kind 
I  would  tell  at  a  club  dinner,  or  with  the  coffee 
and  cigarettes — and  were  as  instantly  dropped. 
Such  open-air,  breezy  giants,  full  of  muscle  and 
ozone,  would  find  no  interest  in  the  adventures  of 
196 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

any  of  my  characters;  the  cheap  wit  of  the  cafes, 
the  homely  humor  of  the  farm,  the  chatter  of  the 
opera-box,  or  whisperings  behind  the  palms  of 
the  conservatory — nothing  of  this  could  possibly 
interest  these  men.  I  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
offer  it.  Tom's  simple,  straightforward  story  of 
his  baby  and  his  brother  Bill  had  made  it  im 
possible  for  me  to  attempt  to  match  it  with  any 
cheap  pathos  of  my  owrn ;  just  as  the  graphic  treat 
ment  of  the  fitting  out  of  the  negro  cook  by  the 
Captain,  and  of  the  rescue  of  the  "lady"  by  Saul, 
had  ended  all  hopes  of  my  entertaining  the  men 
around  me  with  any  worm-eaten,  hollow-shelled 
chestnuts  of  my  own.  What  was  wanted  was  some 
big,  simple,  genuine  yarn:  strong  meat  for  strong 
men,  not  milk  for  babes:  something  they  wrould 
know  all  about  and  believe  in  and  were  part  of. 
The  storming  of  a  fort;  the  flagging  of  a  train 
within  three  feet  of  an  abyss ;  the  rescue  of  a  child 
along  a  burning  ledge  five  stories  above  the  side 
walk:  all  these  themes  bubbled  up  and  sank  again 
in  my  mind.  Some  of  them  I  only  knew  parts  of; 
some  had  but  little  point;  all  of  them  were 
197 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

in  my  mind.  I  remembered,  with  regret,  that  I  could 
only  repeat  the  first  verse  of  the  "Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade,"  and  but  two  lines  of  "Horatius," 
correctly. 

Suddenly  a  great  light  broke  in  upon  me.  What 
they  wanted  was  something  about  their  own  life: 
some  account  of  the  deeds  of  other  life-savers  up 
and  down  the  coast,  graphically  put  with  proper 
dramatic  effect,  beginning  slowly  and  culminating 
in  the  third  act  with  a  blaze  of  heroism.  These  big, 
brawny  heroes  about  me  would  then  get  a  clearer 
idea  of  the  estimation  in  which  they  were  held  by 
their  countrymen ;  a  clearer  idea,  too,  of  true  hero 
ism — of  the  genuine  article,  examples  of  which 
were  almost  nightly  shown  in  their  own  lives.  This 
would  encourage  them  to  still  greater  efforts,  and 
the  world  thereby  be  the  better  for  my  telling. 

That  gallant  rescue  of  the  man  off  Quogue  was 
just  the  thing! 

The  papers  of  the  week  before  had  been  full  of 
the  bravery  of  these  brother  surf  men  on  the  Long 
Island  coast.  This,  and  some  additional  informa 
tion  given  me  by  a  reporter  who  visited  the  scene 
198 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

of  the  disaster  after  the  rescue,  could  not  fail  to 
make  an  impression,  I  thought.  Yes,  the  rescue  was 
the  very  thing. 

"Oh!  men,"  I  began,  "did  you  hear  about  that 
four-master  that  came  ashore  off  Shinnecock  last 
week?"  and  I  looked  around  into  their  faces. 

"No,"  remarked  Jerry,  pulling  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  "What  about  it?" 

"Why,  yes,  ye  did,"  grunted  Tom;  "Number 
17  got  two  of  'em." 

"Yes,  and  the  others  were  drowned,"  interrupted 
Saul. 

"Thick,  warn't  it?"  suggested  one  of  the  sleepy 
surfmen,  thrusting  his  wharf-post  of  a  leg  into  one 
section  of  his  hip-boots  preparatory  to  patrolling 
the  beach. 

"Yes,"  I  continued,  "dense  fog ;  couldn't  see  five 
feet  from  the  shore.  She  grounded  about  a  mile 
wrest  of  the  Station,  and  all  the  men  had  to  locate 
her  position  by  was  the  cries  of  the  crew.  They 
couldn't  use  the  boat,  the  sea  was  running  so  heavy, 
and  they  couldn't  get  a  line  over  her  because  they 
couldn't  see  her.  They  stood  by,  however,  all  night, 
199 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

and  at  daylight  she  broke  in  two.  All  that  day 
the  men  of  two  stations  worked  to  get  off  to  them, 
and  every  time  they  were  beaten  back  by  the  sea 
and  wreckage.  Then  the  fog  cleared  a  little  and 
two  of  the  crew  of  the  schooner  were  seen  cling 
ing  to  a  piece  of  timber  and  some  floating  freight. 
Shot  after  shot  was  fired  at  them,  and  by  a  lucky 
hit  one  fell  across  them,  and  they  made  fast  and 
were  hauled  toward  the  shore." 

At  this  moment  the  surf  man  who  had  been  strug 
gling  with  his  hip-boots  caught  my  eye,  nodded, 
and  silently  left  the  room,  fully  equipped  for  his 
patrol.  I  went  on : 

"When  the  wreckage,  with  the  two  men  clinging 
to  it,  got  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  surf,  the 
inshore  floatage  struck  them,  and  smash  they  went 
into  the  thick  of  it.  One  of  the  shipwrecked  men 
grabbed  the  line  and  tried  to  come  ashore,  the  other 
poor  fellow  held  to  the  wreckage.  Twice  the  sea 
broke  his  hold,  and  still  he  held  on." 

The  other  surfman  now,  without  even  a  nod,  dis 
appeared  into  the  night,  slamming  the  outer  door 
behind  him,  the  cold  air  finding  its  way  into  our 
200 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

warm  retreat.  I  ignored  the  slight  discourtesy  and 
proceeded : 

"Now,  boys,  comes  the  part  of  the  story  I  think 
will  interest  you."  As  I  said  this  I  swept  my  glance 
around  the  room.  Jerry  was  yawning  behind  his 
hand  and  Tom  was  shaking  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe. 

"On  the  beach"  (my  voice  rose  now)  "stood  Bill 
Halsey,  one  of  the  Quogue  crew.  He  knew  that  the 
sailor  in  his  weakened  condition  could  not  hold  on 
through  the  inshore  wreckage;  and  sure  enough, 
while  he  was  looking,  a  roller  came  along  and  tore 
the  man  from  his  hold.  In  went  Bill  straight  at  the 
combers,  fighting  his  way.  There  was  not  one 
chance  in  a  hundred  that  he  could  live  through 
it,  but  he  got  the  man  and  held  on,  and  the  crew 
rushed  in  and  hauled  them  clear  of  the  smother, 
both  of  them  half-dead,  Bill's  arms  still  locked 
around  the  sailor.  Bill  came  to  soonest,  and  the  first 
words  he  said  were,  'Don't  mind  me,  I'm  all  right : 
take  care  of  the  sailor !'  " 

I  looked  around  again;  Captain  Shortrode  was 
examining  the  stubs  of  his  horny  fingers  with  as 
201 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

much  care  as  if  they  would  require  amputation  at 
no  distant  day ;  Jerry  and  Saul  had  their  gaze  on 
the  floor.  Tom  was  still  tilted  back,  his  eyes  tight 
shut.  I  braced  up  and  continued: 

"All  this,  of  course,  men,  you  no  doubt  heard 
about,  but  what  the  reporter  told  me  may  be  new 
to  you.  That  night  the  'Shipping  News'  got  Bill 
on  the  'phone  and  asked  him  if  he  was  William 
Halsey." 

"  'Yes.'  " 

"  'Are  you  the  man  who  pulled  the  sailor  out  of 
the  wreckage  this  morning  at  daybreak  ?'  " 

"  'Yes.'  " 

"  'Well,  we'd  like  you  to  write  some  little  ac 
count  of ' ' 

"  'Well,  I  ain't  got  no  time.'  " 

"  'If  we  send  a  reporter  down,  will  you  talk  to 
him  and '  " 


"  'No,  for  there  ain't  nothin'  to  tell ' ' 

"  'You're  Halsey,  aren't  you?'  " 
"  'Yes.'  " 

"  'Well,  we  should  like  to  get  some  of  the  de 
tails  ;  it  was  a  very  heroic  rescue,  and '  ' 

202 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

"  'Well,  there  ain't  no  details  and  there  ain't  no 
heroics.  I  git  paid  for  what  I  do,  and  I  done  it,'  ' 
and  he  rang  off  the  'phone. 

A  dead  silence  followed — one  of  those  uncom 
fortable  silences  that  often  follows  a  society  break 
precipitating  the  well-known  unpleasant  quarter  of 
an  hour.  This  silence  lasted  only  a  minute.  Then 
Captain  Shortrode  remarked  calmly  and  coldly, 
and,  I  thought,  with  a  tired  feeling  in  his  voice : 

"Well,  what  else  could  he  have  said?" 

The  fur-coated  beast  was  taken  out  of  camphor, 
hooked  up  to  the  buggy,  and  the  Captain  and  I 
ploughed  our  way  back  through  the  snow  to  the 
depot,  the  men  standing  in  the  door-way  waving 
their  hands  Good-by. 

The  next  day  I  wrote  this  to  the  Superintend 
ent  at  headquarters : 

"These  men  fear  nothing  but  God !" 


203 


"OLD     SUNSHINE" 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

J.T  was  when  pulling  in  his  milk  one  morning 
that  Dalny  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  "Old 
Sunshine."  The  cans  had  become  mixed,  Dalny's 
pint  having  been  laid  at  the  old  man's  door  and  the 
old  man's  gill  at  Dalny's,  and  the  rectifying  of 
the  mistake — "Old  Sunshine"  did  the  rectifying 
— laid  the  basis  of  the  acquaintance. 

Everybody,  of  course,  in  the  Studio  Building 
knew  the  old  man  and  his  old  sister  by  sight,  but 
only  one  or  two  well  enough  to  speak  to  him ;  none 
of  them  to  speak  to  the  poor,  faded  woman,  who 
would  climb  the  stairs  so  many  times  a  day,  always 
stopping  for  her  breath  at  the  landing,  and  always 
with  some  little  package — a  pinch  of  tea,  or  a  loaf 
of  bread,  or  fragment  of  chop — which  she  hid 
under  her  apron  if  she  heard  anyone's  steps.  She 
was  younger  than  her  brother  by  a  few  years,  but 
207 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

there  was  no  mistaking  their  relationship;  their 
noses  were  exactly  alike — long,  semi-transparent 
noses,  protruding  between  two  wistful,  china-blue 
eyes  peering  from  under  eyebrows  shaded  by  soft 
gray  hair. 

The  rooms  to  which  the  sister  climbed,  and 
where  the  brother  worked,  were  at  the  top  of  the 
building,  away  up  under  the  corridor  skylight, 
the  iron  ladder  to  its  trap  being  bolted  to  the  wall 
outside  their  very  door.  It  was  sunnier  up  there, 
the  brother  said.  One  of  the  rooms  he  used  for  his 
studio,  sleeping  on  a  cot  behind  a  screen ;  the  other 
was  occupied  by  his  sister.  What  little  housekeep 
ing  was  necessary  went  on  behind  this  door.  Out 
side,  on  its  upper  panel,  was  tacked  a  card  bearing 
his  name: 

Adolphe  Woolfsen. 

When  he  had  moved  in,  some  years  before — 
long  before  Dalny  arrived  in  the  building — the 
agent  had  copied  the  inscription  in  his  book  from 
this  very  card,  and  had  thereafter  nailed  it  to  the 
panel  to  identify  the  occupant.  It  had  never  been 
208 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

removed,  nor  had  any  more  important  name-plate 
been  placed  beside  it. 

Sometimes  the  janitor,  in  addressing  him,  would 
call  him  "Mr.  Adolphe,"  and  sometimes  "Mr. 
Woolf sen" ;  sometimes  he  would  so  far  forget 
himself  as  to  let  his  tongue  slip  half-way  down 
"Old  Sunshine,"  bringing  up  at  the  "Sun"  and  sub 
stituting  either  one  of  the  foregoing  in  its  place. 

The  agent  who  collected  his  rent  always  ad 
dressed  him  correctly.  "If  it  was  agreeable  to  Mr. 
Woolfsen,  he  would  like  to  collect,"  etc.  Some 
times  it  was  agreeable  to  Mr.  Woolfsen,  and  some 
times  it  was  not.  When  it  was  agreeable — this  the 
janitor  said  occurred  only  when  a  letter  came  with 
a  foreign  postmark  on  it — the  old  painter  would 
politely  beg  the  agent  to  excuse  him  for  a  moment, 
and  shut  the  door  carefully  in  the  agent's  face. 
Then  would  follow  a  hurried  moving  of  easels  and 
the  shifting  of  a  long  screen  across  his  picture. 
Then  the  agent  would  be  received  with  a  courteous 
bow  and  handed  to  a  chair — a  wreck  of  a  chair, 
with  the  legs  unsteady  and  the  back  wobbly,  while 
the  tenant  would  open  an  old  desk,  take  a  china 
209 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

pot  from  one  of  the  cubby-holes,  empty  it  of  the 
contents,  and  begin  to  count  out  the  money,  smil 
ing  graciously  all  the  time.  When  it  was  not  agree 
able  to  pay,  the  door  was  closed  gently  and  silently 
in  the  agent's  face,  and  no  amount  of  pounding 
opened  it  again — not  that  day,  at  least. 

Only  Dalny  knew  what  was  behind  that  screen, 
and  only  Dalny  divined  the  old  man's  reasons  for 
concealing  his  canvas  so  carefully ;  but  this  was  not 
until  after  weeks  of  friendly  greeting,  including 
certain  attentions  to  the  old  sister,  such  as  helping 
her  up  the  stairs  with  a  basket — an  unusual  occur 
rence  for  her,  and,  of  course,  for  him.  This  time 
it  was  a  measure  of  coal  and  a  bundle  of  wood 
that  made  it  so  heavy. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  had  said  in  her  sweet, 
gentle  voice,  her  pale  cheeks  and  sad  eyes  turned 
toward  him;  "my  brother  will  be  so  pleased.  No, 
I  can't  ask  you  in,  for  he  is  much  absorbed  these 
days,  and  I  must  not  disturb  him." 

This  little  episode  occurred  only  a  few  days  after 
the  incident  of  the  interchange  of  the  portions  of 
milk,  and  was  but  another  step  to  a  foregone  inti- 
210 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

macy — so  far  as  Dalny  was  concerned.  Not  that 
he  was  curious,  or  lacked  society  or  advice.  It  was 
Dalny's  way  to  be  gracious,  and  he  rarely  had 
cause  to  repent  it.  He  did  not  pretend  to  any  sys 
tem  of  friendliness  when  meeting  any  fellow-lodger 
on  the  stairs.  It  began  with  a  cheery  "Good-morn 
ing,"  or  some  remark  about  the  weather,  or  a  hope 
that  the  water  didn't  get  in  through  the  skylight 
and  spoil  any  of  his  sketches.  If  a  pleasant  answer 
came  in  response,  Dalny  kept  on,  and  in  a  week 
was  lending  brushes  or  tubes  of  color  or  a  scuttle 
of  coal,  never  borrowing  anything  in  return;  if 
only  a  gruff  "Yes"  or  a  nod  of  the  head  came 
in  reply,  he  passed  on  down  or  up  the  stairs 
whistling  as  usual  or  humming  some  tune  to  him 
self.  This  was  Dalny's  way. 

At  first  the  painter's  sobriquet  of  "Old  Sun 
shine"  puzzled  Dalny ;  he  saw  him  but  seldom,  but 
never  when  his  face  had  anything  sunny  about  it. 
It  was  always  careworn  and  earnest,  an  eager,  hun 
gry  look  in  his  eyes. 

Botts,  who  had  the  next  studio  to  Dalny,  solved 
the  mystery. 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"He's  crazy  over  a  color  scheme ;  gone  daft  on 
purples  and  yellows.  I  haven't  seen  it — nobody  has 
except  his  old  sister.  He  keeps  it  covered  up,  but 
he's  got  a  50X60  that  he's  worked  on  for  years. 
Claims  to  have  discovered  a  palette  that  will  make 
a  man  use  smoked  glass  when  his  picture  is  hung 
on  the  line.  That's  why  he's  called  'Old  Sun 
shine.'  " 

Dalny  made  no  reply,  none  that  would  encour 
age  Botts  in  his  flippant  view  of  the  old  painter. 
He  himself  had  been  studying  that  same  problem 
all  his  life;  furthermore,  he  had  always  believed 
that  sooner  or  later  some  magician  would  produce 
three  tones — with  harmonies  so  exact  that  a  canvas 
would  radiate  light  like  a  prism. 

The  next  day  he  kept  his  studio-door  open  and 
his  ear  unbuttoned,  and  when  the  old  man's  steps 
approached  his  door  on  his  return  from  his  morn 
ing  walk — the  only  hour  he  ever  went  out — 
Dalny  threw  it  wide  and  stepped  in  front  of 
him. 

"Don't  mind  coming  in,  do  you?"  Dalny 
laughed.  "I've  struck  a  snag  in  a  bit  of  drapery 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

and  can't  get  anything  out  of  it.  I  thought  you 
might  help — "  And  before  the  old  fellow  could 
realize  where  he  was,  Dalny  had  him  in  a  chair 
before  his  canvas. 

"I'm  not  a  figure-painter,"  the  old  man  said, 
simply. 

"That  don't  make  any  difference.  Tell  me  what's 
the  matter  with  that  shadow — it's  lumpy  and  flat," 
and  Dalny  pointed  to  a  fold  of  velvet  lying  across 
a  sofa,  on  which  was  seated  the  portrait  of  a  stout 
woman — one  of  Dalny's  pot-boilers — the  wife  of 
a  rich  brewer  who  wanted  a  picture  at  a  poor  price 
— one  which  afterward  made  Dalny's  reputation, 
so  masterful  was  the  brushwork.  The  old  Studio 
Building  was  full  of  just  such  customers,  but  not 
of  such  painters. 

"It's  of  the  old  school,"  said  the  painter.  "I 
could  only  criticise  it  in  one  way,  and  that  might 
offend  you." 

"Go  on — what  is  the  matter  with  it?" 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  chin  slowly  and  looked 
at  Dalny  under  his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"I  am  afraid  to  speak.  You  have  been  very  kind. 
213 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

My  sister  says  you  are  always  polite,  and  so  few 
people  are  polite  nowadays." 

"Say  what  you  please ;  don't  worry  about  me.  I 
learn  something  every  day." 

"No;  I  cannot.  It  would  be  cruel  to  tell  you 
what  I  think,  and  Louise  would  not  like  it  when 
she  knew  I  had  told  you,  and  I  must  tell  her.  We 
tell  each  other  everything." 

"Is  the  color  wrong?"  persisted  Dalny.  "I've 
got  the  gray-white  of  the  sky,  as  you  see,  and 
the  reflected  light  from  the  red  plush  of  the  sofa; 
but  the  shadows  between —  Would  you  try  a  touch 
of  emerald  green  here?" 

The  old  man  had  risen  from  his  seat  now  and 
was  backing  away  toward  the  door,  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  his  bald  head  and  the  scanty  gray  hairs  about 
his  temples  glistening  in  the  overhead  light  of  the 
studio. 

"It  would  do  you  no  good,  my  dear  Mr.  Dalny. 
Paint  is  never  color.  Color  is  an  essence,  a  rhythm, 
a  blending  of  tones  as  exquisite  as  the  blending 
of  sounds  in  the  fall  of  a  mountain-brook.  Match 
each  sound  and  you  have  its  melody.  Match  each 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

tone  and  you  have  light.  I  am  working — working. 
Good-morning." 

His  hand  was  now  on  the  door-knob,  his  face 
aglow  with  an  enthusiasm  which  seemed  to  mingle 
with  his  words. 

"Stop !  Don't  go ;  that's  what  I  think  myself," 
cried  Dalny.  "Talk  to  me  about  it." 

The  old  man  dropped  the  knob  and  looked  at 
Dalny  searchingly. 

"You  are  honest  with  me?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then  when  I  triumph  you  shall  see ! — and  you 
shall  see  it  first.  I  will  come  for  you ;  not  yet — not 
yet — perhaps  to-morrow,  perhaps  next  month — 
but  I  will  come !"  and  he  bowed  himself  out. 

The  faded  sister  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs.  She  had  seen  her  brother  mount  the 
first  flight  and  the  fourth,  all  this  by  peering  down 
between  the  banisters.  Then  he  had  disappeared. 
This,  being  unusual,  had  startled  her. 

"You  must  have  stopped  somewhere,  Adolphe," 
she  said,  nervously. 

215 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Yes,  Louise;  the  painter  on  the  floor  below 
called  me." 

"Is  he  poor,  like  us  ?" 

"Poorer.  We  have  the  light  beyond.  He  has 
nothing,  and  never  will  have." 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"A  criticism." 

"And  you  gave  it?" 

"No,  I  could  not.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  tell 
him.  He  tries  so  hard.  He  is  honest,  but  his  work 
is  hopeless." 

"Like  the  man  on  the  first  floor,  who  uses  the 
calcium  light  to  show  his  pictures  by?" 

"No,  no;  Mr.  Dalny  is  a  gentleman,  not  a 
cheat.  He  thinks,  and  would  learn — he  told  me  so. 
But  he  cannot  see.  Ah,  not  to  see,  Louise!  Did 
you  grind  the  new  blue,  dear?  Yes — and  quite 
smooth." 

He  had  taken  off  his  coat  now,  carefully,  the 
lining  being  out  of  one  sleeve.  The  sister  hung  it 
on  a  nail  behind  the  door,  and  the  painter  picked 
up  his  palette  and  stood  looking  at  a  large  canvas 
on  an  easel.  Louise  tiptoed  out  of  the  room  and 
216 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

closed  the  door  of  her  own  apartment.  When  her 
brother  began  work  she  always  left  him  alone. 
Triumph  might  come  at  any  moment,  and  even 
a  word  wrongly  spoken  might  distract  his  thoughts 
and  spoil  everything.  She  had  not  forgotten — nor 
ever  would — how,  two  years  before,  she  had  come 
upon  him  suddenly  just  as  an  exact  tint  had  been 
mixed,  and,  before  he  could  lay  it  on  his  canvas, 
had  unconsciously  interrupted  him,  and  all  the 
hours  and  days  of  study  had  to  be  done  over 
again.  Now  they  had  a  system:  when  she  must 
enter  she  would  cough  gently ;  then,  if  he  did  not 
hear  her,  she  would  cough  again;  if  he  did  not 
answer,  she  would  wait,  sometimes  without  food, 
until  far  into  the  afternoon,  when  the  daylight 
failed  him.  Then  he  would  lay  down  his  palette, 
covering  his  colors  with  water,  and  begin  wash 
ing  his  brushes.  This  sound  she  knew.  Only  then 
would  she  open  the  door. 

Botts  had  given  Dalny  the  correct  size  of  the 

canvas,  but  he  had  failed  to  describe  the  picture 

covering  it.   It  was  a  landscape  showing  the  sun 

setting  behind  a  mountain,  the  sky  reflected  in  a 

217 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

lake;  in  the  foreground  was  a  stretch  of  meadow. 
The  sky  was  yellow  and  the  mountain  purple;  the 
meadow  reddish  brown.  In  the  centre  of  the  can 
vas  was  a  white  spot  the  size  of  a  pill-box.  This 
was  the  sun,  and  the  centre  of  the  color  scheme. 
Radiating  from  this  patch  of  white  were  thou 
sands  of  little  pats  of  chrome  yellow  and  vermilion, 
divided  by  smaller  pats  of  blue.  The  exact  grada 
tions  of  these  tints  were  to  produce  the  vibra 
tions  of  light.  One  false  note  would  destroy  the 
rhythm;  hence  the  hours  of  thought  and  of  end 
less  trying. 

These  colors  were  not  to  be  bought  at  the  ordi 
nary  shops.  Certain  rare  oxides  formed  the  basis 
of  the  yellows,  while  the  filings  of  bits  of  turquoise 
pounded  to  flour  were  used  in  the  blues.  Louise 
did  this,  grinding  the  minerals  by  the  hour,  her 
poor  thin  hands  moving  the  glass  pestle  over  the 
stone  slab.  When  some  carefully  thought-out  tint 
was  laid  beside  another  as  carefully  studied,  the 
combination  meeting  his  ideal,  he  would  spring 
from  his  seat,  crying  out: 

"Louise!  Louise!  Light!  Light!" 
218 


44  OLD    SUNSHINE" 

Then  the  little  woman  would  hurry  in  and  stand 
entranced. 

"Oh!  so  brilliant,  Adolphe!  It  hurts  my  eyes 
to  look  at  it.  See  how  it  glows !  Ah,  it  will  come !" 
and  she  would  shade  her  wistful  eyes  with  her  hand 
as  if  the  light  from  the  flat  canvas  dazzled  her. 
These  were  gala  hours  in  the  musty  rooms  at  the 
top  of  the  old  Studio  Building. 

Then  there  would  come  long  days  of  depres 
sion.  The  lower  range  of  color  was  correct,  but 
that  over  the  right  of  the  mountain  and  near  the 
zenith  did  not  pulsate.  The  fault  lay  in  the  poor 
quality  of  the  colors  or  in  the  bad  brushes  or  the 
sky  outside.  The  faded  sister's  face  always  fell 
when  the  trouble  lay  with  the  colors.  Even  the 
small  measure  of  milk  would  then  have  to  be  given 
up  until  the  janitor  came  bearing  another  letter 
with  a  foreign  stamp. 

Dalny  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  nor  did  anyone 
else  in  the  building — nothing  positively  of  their 
home  life — except  from  such  outside  indications  as 
the  size  of  the  can  of  milk  and  the  increasing  shab- 
biness  of  their  clothes.  Dalny  had  suspected  it  and 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

had  tried  to  win  their  confidence  in  his  impulsive 
way ;  but  all  his  advances  had  been  met  by  a  gentle, 
almost  pathetic,  reserve  which  was  more  insurmount 
able  than  a  direct  repulse.  He  also  wanted  to  learn 
something  more  of  the  old  man's  methods.  He  had 
in  his  own  earlier  student  days  known  an  old  pro 
fessor  in  Heidelberg  who  used  to  talk  to  him  about 
violet  and  green,  but  he  never  got  any  farther 
than  talk.  Here  was  a  man,  a  German,  too,  perhaps 
— or  perhaps  a  Swede — he  could  not  tell  from  the 
name — some  foreigner,  anyhow — who  was  putting 
his  theories  into  practice,  and,  more  convincing 
still,  was  willing  to  starve  slowly  until  they  mate 
rialized. 

Once  he  had  cornered  the  old  man  on  the  stairs, 
and,  throwing  aside  all  duplicity,  had  asked  him 
the  straight  question : 

"Will  you  show  me  your  picture?  I  showed  you 
mine." 

"Old  Sunshine"  raised  his  wide-brimmed  hat 
from  his  head  by  the  crown — it  was  too  limp  to 
be  lifted  in  any  other  way — and  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

220 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

"Yes,  when  it  is  a  picture;  it  is  now  only  an 
experiment." 

"But  it  will  help  me  if  I  can  see  your  work.  I 
am  but  a  beginner ;  you  are  a  master." 

The  good-natured  touch  of  flatter}*  made  no  im 
pression  on  the  old  man. 

"No,"  he  answered,  replacing  his  hat  and  keep 
ing  on  his  way  downstairs,  "I  am  not  a  master. 
I  am  a  man  groping  in  the  dark,  following  a  light 
that  beckons  me  on.  It  will  not  help  you;  it  will 
hurt  you.  I  will  come  for  you;  I  have  promised, 
remember.  Neither  my  sister  nor  I  ever  break  a 
promise.  Good-morning!"  And  again  the  shabby 
hat  was  lifted. 

Dalny  stood  outside  his  own  door  listening  to 
the  old  man's  steps  growing  fainter  until  they 
reached  the  street;  then  he  resumed  his  work  on 
the  green  dress  and  puffy  red  face  of  the  brewer's 
wife,  correcting  the  errors  he  had  made  when  she 
last  sat  for  him,  his  mind  unsatisfied,  his  curiosity 
all  the  more  eager. 

As  the  winter  came  on,  Dalny  began  to  miss 
the  tread  of  the  old  man  outside  his  door.  The  old 
221 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

sister  never  made  any  noise,  so  he  never  knew  when 
she  went  up  and  down  unless  he  happened  to  be 
on  the  stairs  at  the  same  moment.  He  knew  the  old 
man  was  at  work,  because  he  could  hear  his  cease 
less  tramp  before  his  easel — walking  up  to  his  pict 
ure,  laying  on  a  pat  of  color,  and  walking  back 
again.  He  himself  had  walked  miles — had  been  do 
ing  it  the  day  before  in  his  efforts  to  give  "carry 
ing"  quality  to  the  shadow  under  the  nose  of  the 
brewer's  better  half. 

"I  do  not  see  your  brother  any  more,"  Dalny 
had  said  to  her  one  morning,  after  meeting  her 
by  accident  outside  his  door  carrying  a  basket  with 
a  cloth  over  it. 

"No,"  she  answered ;  "no ;  he  cannot  spare  a 
moment  these  days.  He  hardly  takes  time  to  eat, 
and  I  do  all  the  errands.  But  he  is  very  happy." 
Here  her  face  broke  into  a  smile.  "Oh,  so  happy ! 
We  both  are " 

"And  is  the  great  picture  finished?"  he  inter 
rupted,  with  a  movement  as  if  to  relieve  her  of 
the  weight  of  the  basket. 

"Almost.  .  .  .  Almost.  .  .  .  Adolphe 
222 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

will  tell  you  when  it  is  ready.  No — please,  good 
Mr.  Dalny — it  is  not  heavy.  But  I  thank  you  all 
the  same  for  wanting  to  help  me.  It  is  a  little  hot 
soup  for  Adolphe.  He  is  very  fond  of  hot  soup, 
and  they  make  it  very  nice  at  the  corner." 

The  day  following  this  interview  Dalny  heard 
strange  noises  overhead.  The  steady  tramping  had 
ceased;  the  sounds  were  as  if  heavy  furniture  was 
being  moved.  Then  there  would  come  a  pattering 
of  lighter  feet  running  in  and  out  of  the  connect 
ing  room.  Then  a  noise  as  if  scrubbing  was  being 
done ;  he  thought  at  one  time  he  heard  the  splash 
of  water,  and  even  looked  up  at  his  own  ceiling 
as  if  expecting  a  leak. 

Suddenly  these  unusual  sounds  ceased,  the  old 
man's  door  was  flung  open,  a  hurried  step  was 
heard  on  the  upper  stairway,  and  a  sharp  knock 
fell  upon  his  own  door. 

Dalny  opened  it  in  the  face  of  the  old  man.  He 
was  bareheaded,  his  eyes  blazing  with  excitement, 
his  face  flushed  as  if  by  some  uncontrollable  joy. 

"Come — quick !"  he  cried ;  "we  are  all  ready.  It 
was  perfected  this  morning.  We  have  been  putting 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

things  in  order  for  you,  for  we  do  not  ever  have 
guests.  But  you  must  be  careful — your  eyes  are 
not  accustomed,  perhaps,  and " 

Dalny  darted  back  without  listening  to  the  old 
man's  conclusion,  and  threw  on  his  coat.  The 
faded  sister  was  upstairs,  and  he  must  be  pre 
sentable. 

"And  you  like  your  picture,"  burst  out 
Dalny,  as  he  adjusted  his  collar  and  cuffs — part 
of  the  old  man's  happiness  had  reached  his  own 
heart  now. 

"Like  it?  It  is  not  something  to  like,  Mr. 
Dalny.  It  is  not  a  meal;  it  is  a  religion.  You  are 
in  a  fog,  and  the  sun  bursts  through;  you  are  in 
a  tunnel,  and  are  swept  out  into  green  fields;  you 
grope  in  the  dark,  and  an  angel  leads  you  to  the 
light.  You  do  not  'like'  things  then — you  thank 
God  on  your  knees.  Louise  has  done  nothing 
but  cry." 

These  words  came  in  shortened  sentences  divided 
by  the  mounting  of  each  step,  the  two  hurrying 
up  the  stairs,  "Old  Sunshine"  ahead,  Dalny  fol 
lowing. 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

The  sister  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  open 
door.  She  had  a  snow-white  kerchief  over  her  shoul 
ders  and  a  quaint  cap  on  her  head,  evidently  her 
best.  Her  eyes,  still  red  from  weeping,  shone  like 
flashes  of  sunshine  through  falling  rain. 

"Keep  him  here,  Louise,  until  I  get  my  umbrella 
— I  am  afraid.  No;  stay  till  I  come  for  you — " 
this  to  Dalny,  who  was,  in  his  eagerness,  peering 
into  the  well-swept,  orderly  looking  room.  "Shut 
your  eyes  until  I  tell  you — quick!  under  this 
umbrella"  (he  had  picked  it  up  just  inside  the 
door). 

Dalny  suffered  himself  to  be  led  into  the  room, 
his  head  smothered  under  the  umbrella,  the  old 
man's  hand  firmly  grasping  his  as  if  the  distance 
between  the  door  and  the  masterpiece  was  along 
the  edge  of  an  abyss. 

"Now !"  cried  the  old  man,  waving  the  umbrella 
aside. 

Dalny  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  feeling  of  faintness 

came  over  him.  Then  a  peculiar  choking  sensation 

crept  into  his  throat.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  and 

could  not  speak.  The  thousands  of  little  patches 

225 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

of  paint  radiating  from  the  centre  spot  were  but 
so  many  blurs  on  a  flat  canvas.  The  failure  was 
pathetic,  but  it  was  complete. 

The  old  man  was  reading  his  face.  The  faded 
sister  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  his. 

"It  does  not  dazzle  you!  You  do  not  see  the 
vibrations  ?" 

"I  am  getting  my  eyes  accustomed  to  it,"  stam 
mered  Dalny.  "I  cannot  take  it  all  in  at  once." 
He  was  hunting  around  in  his  mind  for  something 
to  say — something  that  would  not  break  the  old 
man's  heart. 

"No!  You  cannot  deceive  me.  I  had  hoped  bet 
ter  things  of  you,  Mr.  Dalny.  It  is  not  your  fault 
that  you  cannot  see." 

The  old  man  had  crossed  to  the  door  of  his 
studio,  had  thrown  it  open,  and  stood  as  if  waiting 
for  Dalny  to  pass  out. 

"Yes,  but  let  me  look  a  little  longer,"  protested 
Dalny.  The  situation  was  too  pathetic  for  him 
to  be  offended. 

"No — no — please  excuse  us — we  are  very  happy, 
Louise  and  I,  and  I  would  rather  you  left  us  alone. 
226 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

I  will  come  for  you  some  other  time — when  my 
picture  has  been  sent  away.  Please  forgive  my  sis 
ter  and  me,  but  please  go  away." 

Weeks  passed  before  Dalny  saw  either  one  of 
the  old  people  again.  He  watched  for  them,  his 
door  ajar,  listening  to  every  sound;  but  if  they 
passed  up  and  down  the  stairs,  they  did  so  when 
he  was  out  or  asleep.  He  had  noticed,  too,  that  all 
was  still  overhead,  except  a  light  tread  which  he 
knew  must  be  the  faded  sister's.  The  heavier  foot 
fall,  however,  was  silent. 

One  morning  the  janitor  opened  Dalny's  door 
without  knocking  and  closed  it  softly  behind  him. 
He  seemed  laboring  under  some  excitement. 

"He's  up  at  St.  Luke's  Hospital ;  they  took  him 
there  last  night,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  jerking  his 
thumb  toward  the  ceiling. 

"Who?" 

"  'Old  Sunshine.'  " 

"Crazy?" 

"No;  ill  with  fever;  been  sick  for  a  week.  Not 
bad,  but  the  doctor  would  not  let  him  stay  here." 
227 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"Did  the  sister  go?"  There  was  a  note  of  alarm 
in  Dalny's  voice. 

"No,  she  is  upstairs.  That's  why  I  came.  I 
don't  think  she  has  much  to  eat.  She  won't  let  me 
in.  Maybe  you  can  get  her  to  talk  to  you ;  she  likes 
you — she  told  me  so." 

Dalny  laid  down  his  palette,  tiptoed  hurriedly 
up  the  stairs  and  knocked  gently.  There  was  no 
response.  Then  he  knocked  again,  this  time  much 
louder,  and  waited.  He  heard  the  rustling  of  a 
skirt,  but  there  was  no  other  sound. 

"It's  Mr.  Dalny,  madam,"  he  said  in  the  kind 
est,  most  sympathetic  voice  that  ever  came  out  of 
his  throat. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  her  face  peered 
through  the  crack.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes — old 
and  new  tears — following  one  another  down  her 
furrowed  cheeks. 

"He  is  gone  away;  they  took  him  last  night, 
Mr.  Dalny."  Her  voice  broke,  but  she  still  kept 
the  edge  of  the  door  in  her  trembling  hand. 

"Yes;  I  have  just  heard  about  it.  Let  me  come 
in,  please ;  I  want  to  help  you.  You  are-  all  alone." 
228 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

Her  grasp  slackened,  and  Dalny  stepped  in. 
The  room  was  in  some  confusion.  The  bed  where 
her  brother  had  been  ill  was  still  in  disorder,  the 
screen  that  had  concealed  it  pushed  to  one  side. 
On  a  table  by  his  easel  were  the  remains  of  a  meal. 
The  masterpiece  still  stared  out  from  its  place. 
The  sister  walked  to  a  lounge  and  sat  down. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  Dalny  said,  seating  himself 
beside  her.  "Have  you  any  money?" 

"No ;  our  letter  has  not  come." 

"What  do  you  expect  to  do?" 

"I  must  sell  something." 

"Let  me  lend  you  some  money.  I  have  plenty, 
for  I  shall  get  paid  for  my  picture  to-morrow; 
then  you  can  pay  it  back  when  yours  comes." 

"Oh,  you  are  so  kind,  but  we  must  sell  something 
of  our  own.  We  owe  a  large  sum;  the  rent  is  two 
months  due,  and  there  are  other  things,  and 
Adolphe  must  have  some  comforts.  No,  I  am  not 
offended,  but  Adolphe  would  be  if  he  knew." 

Dalny  looked  into  space  for  a  moment,  and 
asked,  thoughtfully,  "How  much  do  you  owe?" 

"Oh,  a  great  deal,"  she  answered,  simply. 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"What  things  will  you  sell?"  At  least  he  could 
help  her  in  this. 

The  faded  old  lady  looked  up  at  Dalny  and 
pointed  to  the  masterpiece. 

"It  breaks  our  heart  to  send  it  away,  but  there 
is  nothing  else  to  do.  It  will  bring,  too,  a  great 
price;  nothing  else  we  possess  will  bring  as  much. 
Then  we  will  have  no  more  poverty,  and  someone 
may  buy  it  who  will  love  it,  and  so  my  brother 
will  get  his  reward." 

Dalny  swept  his  eye  around.  The  furniture  was 
of  the  shabbiest;  pictures  and  sketches  tacked  to 
the  wall,  but  experiments  in  "Old  Sunshine's"  pet 
theories.  Nothing  else  would  bring  anything.  And 
the  masterpiece!  That,  he  knew,  would  not  bring 
the  cost  of  its  frame. 

"Where  will  you  send  it  to  be  sold — to  an  art 
dealer?"  Dalny  asked.  He  could  speak  a  good 
word  for  it,  perhaps,  if  it  should  be  sent  to  some 
dealer  he  knew. 

"No ;  to  a  place  in  Cedar  Street,  where  Adolphe 
sold  some  sketches  his  brother  painters  gave  him 
in  their  student  days.  One  by  Achenbach — Oswald, 
230 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

not  Andreas — brought  a  large  sum.  It  was  a  great 
help  to  us.  I  have  written  the  gentleman  who  keeps 
the  auction-room,  and  he  is  to  send  for  the  picture 
to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  sold  in  his  next  picture 
sale.  Adolphe  was  willing;  he  told  me  to  do  it. 
'Someone  will  know,'  he  said;  'and  we  ought  not 
to  enjoy  it  all  to  ourselves.'  Then  again,  the  prob 
lem  has  been  solved.  All  his  pictures  after  this 
will  be  full  of  beautiful  light." 

The  auction-room  was  crowded.  There  was  to 
be  a  sale  of  French  pictures,  some  by  the  men  of 
'30  and  some  by  the  more  advanced  impressionists. 
Many  out-of-town  buyers  were  present,  a  few  of 
them  dealers.  Dalny  rubbed  his  hands  together  in 
a  pleased  way  when  he  looked  over  the  audience 
and  the  collection.  It  was  quite  possible  that  some 
connoisseur  newly  made  would  take  a  fancy  to 
the  masterpiece,  confounding  it  with  some  one  of 
the  pictures  of  the  Upside-down  School — pictures 
looking  equally  well  whichever  way  they  might  be 
hung. 

The  selling  began. 

231 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

A  Corot  brought  $2,700;  a  Daubigny,  $940; 
two  examples  of  the  reigning  success  in  Paris, 
$1,100.  Twenty-two  pictures  had  been  sold. 

Then  the  masterpiece  was  placed  on  the  easel. 

"A  Sunrise.  By  Adolphe  Woolfsen  of  Diissel- 
dorf,"  called  out  the  auctioneer.  "What  am  I 
offered?" 

There  came  a  pause,  and  the  auctioneer  repeated 
the  announcement. 

A  man  sitting  by  the  auctioneer,  near  enough 
to  see  every  touch  of  the  brush  on  "Old  Sun 
shine's"  picture,  laughed,  and  nudged  the  man 
next  to  him.  Several  others  joined  in. 

Then  came  a  voice  from  behind : 

"Five  dollars!" 

The  auctioneer  shrank  a  little,  a  pained,  sur 
prised  feeling  overspreading  his  face,  as  if  some 
one  had  thrown  a  bit  of  orange-peel  at  him.  Then 
he  went  on : 

"Five  dollars  it  is,  gentlemen.  Five — five — five !" 
Even  he,  with  all  the  tricks   of  his  trade  at  his 
fingers'  ends,  could  not  find  a  good  word  to  say 
for  "Old  Sunshine's"  masterpiece. 
232 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

Dalny  kept  shifting  his  feet  in  his  uneasiness. 
His  hands  opened  and  shut;  his  throat  began  to 
get  dry.  Then  he  broke  loose : 

"One  hundred  dollars !" 

The  auctioneer's  face  lighted  up  as  suddenly 
as  if  the  calcium  light  of  the  painter  whom 
"Old  Sunshine"  despised  had  been  thrown 
upon  it. 

"I  have  your  bid,  Mr.  Dalny  [he  knew  him] — 
one  hundred  —  hundred  —  hundred  —  one  —  one 
— third  and  last  call !" 

Dalny  thought  of  the  gentle  old  face  waiting 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  of  the  old  man's 
anxious  look  as  he  lay  on  his  pillow.  The  auc 
tioneer  had  seen  Dalny's  eager  expression  and  at 
once  began  to  address  an  imaginary  bidder  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room — his  clerk,  really. 

"Two  hundred  —  two  hundred  —  two  —  two  — 
two " 

"Three  hundred!"  shouted  Dalny. 

Again  the  clerk  nodded : 

"Four— four !" 

"Five!"  shouted  Dalny.  This  was  all  the  money 
233 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

he  would  get  in  the  morning  excepting  fifty  dol 
lars — and  that  he  owed  for  his  rent. 

"Five— five— five!— third  and  last  call!  SOLD! 
and  to  you,  Mr.  Dalny!  Gentlemen,  you  seem  to 
have  been  asleep.  One  of  the  most  distinguished 
painters  of  our  time  is  the  possessor  of  this  pict 
ure,  which  only  shows  that  it  takes  an  artist  to 
pick  out  a  good  thing!" 

She  was  waiting  for  him  in  her  room,  her  own 
door  ajar  this  time.  He  had  promised  to  come  back, 
and  she  was  then  to  go  to  the  hospital  and  tell 
the  good  news  to  her  brother. 

With  his  heart  aglow  with  the  pleasure  in  store 
for  her,  he  bounded  up  the  stairs,  both  hands  held 
out,  his  face  beaming: 

"Wonderful  success !  Bought  by  a  distinguished 
connoisseur  who  won't  let  the  auctioneer  give  his 
name." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy!"  she  answered.  "That  is 
really  better  than  the  money;  and  for  how  much, 
dear  Mr.  Dalny?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars !" 
234 


"OLD    SUNSHINE" 

The  faded  sister's  face  fell. 

"I  thought  it  would  bring  a  great  deal  more, 
but  then  Adolphe  will  be  content.  It  was  the  lowest 
sum  he  mentioned  when  he  decided  to  sell  it.  Will 
you  go  with  me  to  tell  him?  Please  do." 

In  the  office  of  the  hospital  Dalny  stopped  to 
talk  to  the  doctor,  the  sister  going  on  up  to  the 
ward  where  "Old  Sunshine"  lay. 

"Is  he  better?"  asked  Dalny.  "He  is  a  friend 
of  mine." 

The  doctor  tapped  his  forehead  significantly 
with  his  forefinger. 

"Brain  trouble?"  asked  Dalny  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"Yes." 

"Will  he  get  well?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  discouragingly. 

"How  long  will  he  last?" 

"Perhaps  a  week — perhaps  not  twenty-four 
hours." 

The  faded  sister  now  entered.  Her  face  was 
still  smiling — no  one  had  yet  told  her  about  her 
brother. 

"Oh,  he  is  so  happy,  Mr.  Dalny." 
235 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

"And  you  told  him?" 

"Yes!  Yes!" 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  put  his  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me, 
and  then  he  whispered,  'Oh!  Louise,  Louise!  the 
connoisseur  knew !'  " 


236 


A    POT    OF    JAM 


A    POT     OF    JAM 

AFTER  a  fit  of  choking  that  could  be  heard  all 
over  the  train  the  left  lung  of  the  locomotive  gave 
out.  I  had  heard  her  coughing  up  the  long  grade 
and  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  she  would  pull 
through,  when  she  gave  a  wheeze  and  then  a  jerk, 
and  out  went  her  cylinder  head. 

Boston  was  four  hours  away  and  time  of  value 
to  me.  So  it  was  to  all  the  other  passengers,  judg 
ing  from  the  variety  and  pungency  of  their  re 
marks — all  except  one,  an  old  lady  who  had 
boarded  the  train  at  a  station  near  the  foot  of  the 
long  grade  and  who  occupied  a  seat  immediately 
in  front  of  mine. 

Such  a  dear  old  lady !  plump  and  restful,  a  gray 

worsted  shawl  about  her  shoulders  and  a  reticule 

on  her  arm.  An  old  lady  with  a  round  rosy  face 

framed  in  a  hood-of-a-bonnet  edged  with  ruffles, 

239 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

the  strings  tied  under  her  chin,  her  two  soft,  human, 
kindly  eyes  peering  at  you  over  her  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  resting  on  the  end  of  her  nose.  The  sort 
of  an  old  lady  that  you  would  like  to  have  had  for 
a  mother  provided  you  never  had  one  of  your  own 
that  you  could  remember — so  comforting  would 
have  been  her  touch. 

As  the  delay  continued,  the  passengers  made  re 
marks.  Some  I  cannot  remember ;  others  I  cannot 
print. 

One  man  in  unblacked  boots,  with  a  full  set  of 
dusting-brush  whiskers  sticking  up  above  his  collar- 
less  shirt,  smooth-shaven  chin,  red  face,  and  a  shock 
of  iron-gray  hair  held  in  place  by  a  slouch  hat,  said 
he'd  "be  doggoned  if  he  ever  knowed  where  he  was 
at  when  he  travelled  on  this  road." 

Another — a  man  with  a  leather  case  filled  with 
samples  on  the  seat  beside  him — a  restless,  loud- 
talking  man,  remarked  that  "they  ought  to  build 
a  cemetery  at  both  ends  of  the  road,  and  then  the 
mourners  could  go  in  a  walk  and  everybody  would 
be  satisfied,  instead  of  trying  to  haul  trains  loaded 
with  live  people  that  wanted  to  get  somewheres." 
240 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

Another — a  woman  this  time,  in  a  flower-cov 
ered  hat  and  shiny  brown  silk  dress,  new,  and  evi 
dently  the  pride  of  her  heart  from  the  care  she  took 
of  it — one  of  those  crisp,  breezy,  outspoken  women 
of  forty-five  or  fifty — slim,  narrow-faced,  keen- 
eyed,  with  a  red — quite  red — nose  that  would  one 
day  meet  an  ambitious  upturned  chin,  and  straight, 
firm  mouth,  the  under  lip  pressed  tight  against  the 
upper  one  when  her  mind  was  made  up — remarked 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  a  buzz-saw  striking  a 
knot: 

"You  ain't  tellin'  me  that  we're  goin'  to  miss  the 
train  at  Springfield,  be  ye?" 

This  remark  being  addressed  to  the  car  as  a 
whole — no  single  passenger  having  vouchsafed  any 
such  information — was  received  in  dead  silence. 

The  arrival  of  the  conductor,  wiping  the  grease 
and  grime  from  his  hands  with  a  wad  of  cotton- 
waste,  revived  hope  for  a  moment  and  encouraged 
an  air  of  gayety. 

He  was  a  gentlemanly  conductor,  patient,  accus 
tomed  to  be  abused  and  brief  in  his  replies. 

"Maybe  one  hour ;  maybe  six." 
241 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

The  gayety  ceased. 

The  bewhiskered  man  said,  "Well,  I'll  be  gosh- 
durned!" 

The  sample-case  man  said,  " 

"  (You  can  fill  that  up  at  your  leisure.) 

The  woman  in  the  brown  silk  rose  to  her  feet, 
gathered  her  skirts  carefully  in  her  hand,  skewered 
the  conductor  with  her  eye,  and  said :  "You've  gone 
and  sp'ilt  my  day,  that's  what  you've  gone  and 
done ;"  and,  receiving  no  reply,  crossed  the  aisle  and 
plumped  herself  down  in  the  overturned  seat  oppo 
site  the  dear  old  lady,  adding,  as  she  shook  out 
her  skirt: 

"Dirt  mean,  ain't  it?" 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  looked  at  the  Woman  in 
Brown,  nodded  in  kindly  assent,  gazed  at  the  con 
ductor  over  her  spectacles  until  he  had  closed  the 
door,  and  said  in  a  low,  sweet  voice  that  was  ad 
dressed  to  nobody  in  particular,  and  yet  which  per 
meated  the  car  like  a  strain  of  music : 

"Well,  if  we're  going  to  be  here  for  six  hours  I 
guess  I'll  knit." 

Just  here  I  began  to  be  interested.  The  philos- 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

ophy  of  the  dear  woman's  life  had  evidently  made 
her  proof  against  such  trivialities.  Six  hours !  What 
difference  did  it  make?  There  was  a  flavor  of  the 
Manana  por  la  mailana  of  the  Spaniard  and  the 
Dolce  far  niente  of  the  Italian  in  her  acceptance  of 
the  situation  that  appealed  to  me.  Another  sun 
would  rise  on  the  morrow  as  beautiful  as  the  one 
we  had  to-day ;  why  worry  over  its  setting  ?  Let 
us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry — or  knit.  It  was  all  the 
same  to  her. 

I  immediately  wanted  to  know  more  of  this  pas 
senger — a  desire  that  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
extend  to  any  other  inmate  of  the  car.  And  yet 
there  were  restrictions  and  barriers  which  I  could 
not  pass.  Not  occupying  the  seat  beside  her  or 
opposite  her,  but  the  one  behind  her,  I,  of  course, 
was  not  on  terms  of  such  intimacy  as  would  make  it 
possible  for  me  to  presume  upon  her  privacy.  She 
was  occupying  her  own  house,  as  it  were,  framed  in 
between  two  seat-backs  turned  to  face  each  other, 
giving  her  the  use  of  four  seats — one  of  which  had 
been  usurped  by  the  Woman  in  Brown.  I  had  my 
one  seat  with  my  bag  beside  me,  giving  me  the 
243 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

privileges  of  two  sittings.  Between  us,  of  course, 
was  the  back  of  her  own  seat,  over  which  I  looked 
and  studied  her  back  hair  and  bonnet  and  shawl 
and — knitting. 

Under  the  circumstances  I  could  no  more  intrude 
upon  the  Dear  Old  Lady's  privacy  than  upon  a 
neighbor's  who  lived  next  door  to  me  but  whom  I 
did  not  know  and  was  separated  from  me  only  by 
an  eight-inch  brick  wall.  The  conventionalities  of 
life  enforce  these  conditions.  When,  therefore,  the 
Dear  Old  Lady  informed  me  and  the  car  that  she 
would  "knit,"  I  got  myself  into  position  to  watch 
the  operation ;  not  obtrusively,  not  with  any  inten 
tion  of  prying  into  her  private  life,  but  just  be 
cause — well,  just  because  I  couldn't  help  it. 

There  was  something  about  her,  somehow,  that  I 
could  not  resist.  I  knew  a  Dear  Old  Lady  once.  She 
wasn't  so  stout  as  this  old  lady  and  her  eyes  were 
not  brown,  but  blue,  and  her  hair  smooth  as  gray 
satin  and  of  the  same  color.  I  can  see  her  now  as 
I  write,  the  lamplight  falling  on  her  ivory  needles 
and  tangle  of  white  yarn — and  sometimes,  even 
now,  I  think  I  hear  her  voice. 
244 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  before  me  felt  in  her  pocket, 
pulling  up  her  overskirt  and  fumbling  about  for  a 
mysterious  pouch  that  was  tied  around  her  waist, 
perhaps,  and  in  which  she  carried  her  purse,  and 
then  she  pinched  her  reticle  and  said  to  herself — 
I  was  so  near  I  could  hear  every  word:  "Oh,  I 
guess  I  put  it  in  the  bag" — and  she  leaned  over 
and  began  unfastening  the  clasps  of  an  old-fash 
ioned  carpet-bag,  encased  in  a  pocket-edition  of  a 
linen  duster,  which  rested  on  the  seat  in  front  of  her 
and  beside  the  Woman  in  Brown,  who  drew  her  im 
maculate,  never-to-be-spotted  silk  skirt  out  of  the 
way  of  any  possible  polluting  touch. 

I  craned  my  head.  Somehow  I  could  hardly  wait 
to  see  what  kind  of  knitting  she  would  take  out — 
whether  it  was  a  man's  stocking  or  a  baby's  mitten 
or  a  pair  of  wee  socks,  or  a  stripe  to  sew  in  an 
afghan  to  put  over  somebody's  bed.  What  stories 
could  be  written  about  the  things  dear  old  ladies 
knit — what  stories  they  are,  really!  In  every  ball 
of  yarn  there  is  a  thread  that  leads  from  one  heart 
to  another :  to  some  big  son  or  fragile  daughter,  or 
to  the  owner  of  a  pair  of  pink  toes  that  won't  stay 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

covered  no  matter  how  close  the  crib — or  to  a 
chubby-faced  boy  with  frost-tipped  ears  or  cheeks. 

First  came  the  ball  of  yarn — just  plain  gray 
yarn — and  then  two  steel  needles,  and  then 

Then  the  Dear  Old  Lady  stopped,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  blank  amazement  overspread  her  sweet  face 
as  her  fingers  searched  the  interior  of  the  bag. 

"Why,"  she  said  to  herself,  "why!  Well!  You 
don't  tell  me  that — well !  I  never  knew  that  to  hap 
pen  before.  Oh,  isn't  that  dreadful !  Well,  I  never!" 
Here  she  drew  out  an  unfinished  gray  yarn  stock 
ing.  "Just  look  at  it !  Isn't  it  awful !" 

The  Woman  in  Brown  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
switched  her  dress  close  to  her  knees. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"Jam !"  answered  the  old  lady. 

"Jam !  You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"That's  just  what  it  is.  Blackberry  jam,  that  my 
Lizzie  put  up  for  John  just  before  I  left  home  and 
— oh,  isn't  it  too  bad!  It's  streaming  all  over  the 
seat  and  running  down  on  the  floor !  Oh  my !  my !" 

The  Woman  in  Brown  gave  a  bound  and  was  out 
in  the  aisle.  "Well,  I  should  think,"  she  cried  in- 
246 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

dignantly,  "that  you'd  had  sense  enough  to  know 
better  than  to  carry  jam  in  a  thing  like  that.  I 
ain't  got  none  on  me,  hev  I?" 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  didn't  reply.  She  was  too 
much  absorbed  in  her  own  misfortunes  to  notice  her 
companions. 

"I  told  Lizzie,"  she  continued,  "just  'fore  I  left, 
that  she  oughter  put  it  in  a  basket,  but  she  'lowed 
that  it  had  a  tin  cap  and  was  screwed  tight,  and 
that  she'd  stuff  it  down  in  my  clothes  and  it  would 
carry  all  right.  I  ain't  never  left  it  out  of  my  hand 
but  once,  and  then  I  give  it  to  the  man  who  helped 
me  up  the  steps.  He  must  have  set  it  down  sudden 
like." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  out  from  the  inside  of  the 
bag  certain  articles  of  apparel  which  she  laid  on  the 
seat.  One — evidently  a  neck  handkerchief — looked 
like  a  towel  that  had  just  wiped  off  the  face  of  a 
boy  who  had  swallowed  the  contents  of  the  jar. 

The  Woman  in  Brown  was  in  the  aisle  now  exam 
ining  her  skirts,  twisting  them  round  and  round  in 
search  of  stray  bits  of  jam.  The  Dear  Old  Lady  was 
still  at  work  in  her  bag,  her  back  shielding  its 
247 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

smeared  contents.  Trickling  down  upon  the  floor 
and  puddling  in  the  aisle  and  under  the  seats  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  car  ran  a  sticky  fluid  that  the 
woman  avoided  stepping  upon  with  as  much  care  as 
if  it  had  been  a  snake. 

I  started  forward  to  help,  and  then  I  suddenly 
checked  myself.  What  could  I  do?  The  black 
berry  jam  had  not  only  soaked  John's  stockings, 
but  it  had  also  permeated.  Well,  the  Dear  Old 
Lady  was  travelling  and  evidently  on  the  way  to 
see  John — her  son,  no  doubt — and  to  stay  all 
night.  No,  it  was  beyond  question ;  I  could  not 
be  of  the  slightest  use.  Then  again,  there  was  a 
woman  present.  Whatever  help  the  Dear  Old  Lady 
needed  should  come  from  her. 

"You  ain't  got  no  knife,  I  suppose  ?"  I  heard  the 
Woman  in  Brown  say.  "If  you  had  you  could 
scrape  most  of  it  off." 

"No,"  answered  the  Dear  Old  Lady.  "Have 
you?" 

"Well,  I  did  hev,  but  I  don't  just  know  where  it 
is.  It  would  gorm  that  up,  too,  maybe,  if  I  did 
find  it." 

248 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

"No,  I  guess  the  best  way  is  to  try  and  wash  it 
off.  I'll  get  rid  of  this  anyway,"  the  Dear  Old  Lady 
answered;  and  out  came  the  treacherous  jar  with 
the  crack  extending  down  its  side,  its  metal  top 
loose,  the  whole  wrapp€d  in  yellow  paper — all  of 
which  she  dropped  out  of  the  open  window. 

During  this  last  examination  the  Woman  in 
Brown  stood  in  the  aisle,  her  skirts  above  her  ankles. 
It  wasn't  her  bag,  or  her  stockings,  or  her  jam. 
She  had  paid  her  fare  and  was  entitled  to  her  seat 
and  its  surrounding  comforts :  I  had  a  good  view  of 
her  face  as  she  stood  in  front  of  me,  and  I  saw  what 
was  passing  in  her  mind.  To  this  air  of  being  im 
posed  upon,  first  by  the  railroad  and  now  by  this 
fellow-passenger,  was  added  a  certain  air  of  dis 
gust — a  contempt  for  any  one,  however  old,  who 
could  be  so  stupid  and  careless.  The  little  wrinkles 
that  kept  puckering  at  the  base  of  her  red  lobster- 
claw  of  a  nose — it  really  looked  like  one — helped 
me  in  this  diagnosis.  Its  shape  prevented  her  from 
turning  it  up  at  anybody,  and  wrinkling  was  all 
that  was  left.  Having  read  her  thoughts  as  reflected 
in  her  face,  I  was  no  longer  surprised  that  she  con- 
249 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

tinued  standing  without  offering  in  any  way  to 
help  her  companion  out  of  her  dilemma. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady's  examination  over,  and  the 
intricacies  of  her  bag  explored  and  the  corners  of 
certain  articles  of  apparel  lifted  and  immediately 
replaced  again,  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief: 

"Ain't  but  one  stocking  tetched,  anyhow.  Most 
of  it's  gone  into  my  shoes — yes,  that's  better.  Oh, 
I  was  so  scared !" 

"Everything  stuck  up,  ain't  it?"  rasped  the 
Woman.  She  hadn't  taken  her  seat  yet.  It  seemed  to 
me  she  could  get  more  comfort  out  of  the  Old 
Lady's  misery  standing  up. 

"Well,  it  might  ha'  been  worse,  but  I  ain't  goin' 
to  worry  a  mite  over  it.  I'll  go  to  the  cooler  and 
wash  up  what  I  can,  and  the  rest's  got  to  wait  till 
I  get  to  John's,"  she  said  in  her  sweet,  patient  way, 
as  she  gathered  up  the  bag  and  its  contents  and 
made  her  way  to  the  wash-basin. 

The  car  relapsed  into  its  former  dull  condition. 
Those  of  the  passengers  who  were  not  experts  and 
whose  advice,  if  taken,  would  have  immediately 
250 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

replaced  the  cylinder-head  and  sent  the  train  in  on 
time,  were  picking  flowers  outside  the  track,  but 
close  enough  to  the  train  to  spring  aboard  at  the 
first  sign  of  life  in  the  motive-power.  Every  now 
and  then  there  would  come  a  back-thrust  of  the 
car  and  a  bumping  into  the  one  behind  us.  Some 
scientist  who  had  spent  his  life  in  a  country  store 
hereupon  explained  to  a  mechanical  engineer  who 
had  a  market  garden  out  of  Springfield  (I  learned 
this  from  their  conversation)  that  "it  was  the  b'iler 
that  acted  that  way;  the  engineer  was  lettin'  off 
steam  and  the  jerk  come  when  he  raised  the  safety- 
valve." 

A  brakeman  now  opened  the  door  nearest  the 
water-cooler,  passed  the  old  lady  washing  up,  ran 
amuck  through  a  volley  of  questions  fired  at  him 
in  rapid  succession,  and  slammed  the  other  door 
behind  him  without  replying  to  one  of  them.  In 
this  fusillade  the  Woman  in  Brown,  who  had  now 
turned  over  a  flower-picking  passenger's  seat  in 
addition  to  her  own,  had  managed  her  tongue  with 
the  rapidity  and  precision  of  a  Gatling  gun. 

One  of  those  mysterious  rumors,  picked  up  from 
251 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

some  scrap  of  conversation  heard  outside,  now 
drifted  through  the  car.  It  conveyed  the  informa 
tion  that  another  engine  had  been  telegraphed  for 
and  would  be  along  soon.  This  possibility  the 
Sample-Case  Man  demolished  by  remarking  in  his 
peculiar  vernacular — unprintable,  all  of  it — that  it 
was  ten  miles  to  the  nearest  telegraph  station  and  it 
would  take  two  hours  to  walk  it. 

The  bottom  having  dropped  out  of  this  slight 
hope,  the  car  relapsed  into  its  dull  monotony.  No 
statement  now  of  any  kind  would  be  believed  by 
anybody. 

During  this  depression  I  espied  the  Dear  Old 
Lady  making  her  way  down  the  aisle.  No  trace  of 
anxiety  was  on  her  face.  The  bag  had  resumed  its 
former  appearance,  its  linen  duster  buttoned  tight 
over  its  ample  chest. 

The  Woman  in  Brown  was  waiting  for  her,  her 
feet  up  on  the  flower-picking  passenger's  seat,  her 
precious  brown  silk  tucked  in  above  her  shoes. 

"Quite  a  muss,  warn't  it?  "  she  said  with  rather  a 
gleeful  tone,  as  if  she  rejoiced  in  the  Old  Lady's 
punishment  for  her  stupidity. 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

"Yes,  but  it's  all  right  now.  It  soaked  through 
my  shoes  and  went  all  over  my  cap,  and — "  Here 
she  bent  her  head  and  whispered  into  the  Woman's 
ear.  I  realized  then  how  impossible  it  would  have 
been  for  me  to  have  rendered  the  slightest  assist 
ance. 

She  had  taken  her  seat  now  and  had  laid  the  bag 
in  its  original  position  on  the  cushion  in  front  of 
her.  My  heart  had  gone  out  to  her,  but  I  was  power 
less  to  help.  Once  or  twice  I  conned  over  in  my  mind 
an  expression  of  sympathy,  but  I  could  not  decide 
on  just  what  I  ought  to  say  and  when  I  ought  to 
say  it,  and  so  I  kept  silent.  I  should  not  have 
felt  that  way  about  the  Woman  in  Brown,  who 
sat  across  from  me,  her  two  feet  patting  away  on 
the  seat  cushion  as  if  to  express  her  delight  that 
she  had  escaped  the  catastrophe  (toes  express  joy 
oftener  than  fingers,  if  we  did  but  know  it).  It 
would  not  have  taken  me  five  seconds  to  express 
my  opinion  of  her — with  my  toes  had  she  been 
a  man. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  began  now  to  rearrange  her 
toilet,  drawing  up  her  shawl,  tightening  the  strings 
253 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

of  her  comfortable  bonnet,  wiping  the  big  gold 
spectacles  on  a  bit  of  chamois  from  her  reticule. 
I  watched  every  movement.  Somehow  I  could  not 
keep  my  eyes  from  her.  Then  I  heard  her  say  in 
a  low  voice  to  herself: 

"Well,  the  toe  warn't  stained — I  guess  I  can 
work  on  that." 

Out  came  the  needles  and  yarn  again,  and  the 
wrinkled  fingers  settled  down  to  their  work.  No 
more  charming  picture  in  the  world  than  the  one 
now  before  me! 

The  Woman  in  Brown  held  a  different  opinion. 
Craning  her  head  and  getting  a  full  view  of  the 
Dear  Old  Lady  peacefully  and  comfortably  at 
work,  all  her  sorrows  ended,  she  snapped  out: 

"I  s'pose  ye  don't  know  I  can't  put  my  feet  down 
nowheres.  It's  all  a  muck  round  here ;  you  seed  it 
when  the  jar  fust  busted,  'cause  I  heard  ye  say  so. 
I  been  'spectin'  ye'd  clean  it  up  somehow." 

Down  went  the  knitting  and  up  she  got. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  I'll  get  a  newspaper  and 
wipe  it  up.  I  hope  you  didn't  get  none  on  your 
clothes." 

254 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

"Oh,  I  took  care  o'  that!  This  is  a  brand-new 
dress  and  I  ain't  wore  it  afore.  I  don't  get  nothin' 
on  my  clothes — I  ain't  that  kind."  This  last  came 
with  a  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice. 

I  watched  the  Dear  Old  Lady  lean  over  the  thin 
axe-handle  ankles  of  the  Woman  in  Brown,  mop  up 
a  little  pool  of  jam-juice,  tuck  the  stained  paper 
under  the  crossbar,  and  regain  her  seat.  I  started 
up  to  help,  but  it  was  all  over  before  I  could 
interfere. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  resumed  her  knitting.  The 
Woman  in  Brown  put  down  her  feet ;  her  rights  had 
been  recognized  and  she  was  satisfied.  I  kept  up 
my  vigil. 

Soon  a  movement  opposite  attracted  me.  I  raised 
my  eyes.  The  Woman  in  Brown,  with  her  eye  on  the 
Dear  Old  Lady,  was  stealthily  opening  a  small 
paper  bundle.  She  had  the  air  of  a  boy  watching 
a  policeman.  The  paper  parcel  contained  a  red  nap 
kin,  a  dinner  knife,  and  two  fat  sandwiches  stream 
ing  with  butter. 

"Oh,  you  brought  your  lunch  with  you,  did  ye?" 
remarked  the  Dear  Old  Lady,  who  had  unex- 
255 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

pectedly  raised  her  eyes  from  her  knitting  and  at 
the  wrong  moment. 

"Well,  jes'  a  bite.  I'd  offer  ye  some,  but  I  heard 
ye  say  that  you  were  goin'  to  eat  dinner  with  your 
son.  That's  so,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

The  needles  kept  on  their  course,  the  Dear  Old 
Lady's  thoughts  worked  in  with  every  stitch.  It 
was  now  twelve  o'clock,  and  Boston  hours  away. 
John  would  dine  late  if  he  waited  for  his  old  mother. 

The  red  napkin  had  now  been  laid  on  the  seat 
cushion  and  the  sandwiches  placed  side  by  side  in 
full  sight  of  the  car.  Concealment  was  no  longer 
necessary. 

"I  don't  s'pose  ye  left  any  water  in  the  cooler, 
did  ye?" 

"Oh,  plenty,"  came  the  reply,  the  needles  still 
plying,  the  dear  face  fixed  on  their  movement. 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  before  I  eat  I'll  get  a  cup," 
and  she  covered  the  luncheon  with  the  brown  paper 
and  passed  down  the  aisle. 

During  her  brief  absence  several  important  in- 
256 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

cidents  took  place.  First  there  came  a  jerk  that  felt 
for  a  moment  like  a  head-on  collision.  This  was  a 
new  locomotive,  which  had  been  sent  to  our  relief, 
butting  into  the  rear  car.  Then  followed  a  rush  of 
passengers,  flower-pickers,  mechanical  engineers, 
scientists,  sample-case  man,  and,  last,  the  man 
with  the  dusting-brush  whiskers.  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  located  his  seat  by  his  umbrella  in  the  rack 
overhead,  picked  up  the  paper  parcel,  transferred 
it  to  the  other  seat,  the  one  the  woman  in  Brown 
had  just  left,  tilted  forward  the  back,  and  sat 
down. 

When  he  had  settled  himself  and  raised  his  head, 
the  Woman  in  Brown  stood  over  him  looking  into 
his  eyes,  an  angry  expression  on  her  face.  She  held 
a  cup  of  water  in  her  hand. 

"My  seat,  ain't  it?"  he  blurted  out. 

"Yes,  'spec'  it  is,"  she  snarled  back,  "long  as 
you  want  it."  And  she  gathered  her  skirts  carefully, 
edged  into  the  reduced  space  of  her  former  seat, 
laid  the  cup  of  water  on  the  sill  of  the  window,  and 
sat  down  as  carefully  as  a  hen  adjusting  herself 
257 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

to  a  nest,  and,  I  thought,  with  precisely  the  same 
movement. 

A  moment  more  and  she  leaned  over  the  seat-back 
and  said  to  the  bewhiskered  man : 

"Hand  me  that  napkin  and  stuff,  will  ye?" 

The  man  moved  his  arm,  picked  up  his  news 
paper,  looked  under  it,  and  said : 

"It  ain't  here." 

"Well,  I  guess  it  is.  I  sot  it  there  not  more'n  two 
minutes  ago !" 

The  man  settled  himself  in  his  seat  and  began  to 
read. 

"Look  'round  there,  will  ye?  Maybe  it  dropped 
on  the  floor." 

"It  ain't  on  the  floor.  Guess  I  know  a  napkin 
when  I  see  it."  This  came  with  some  degree  of  posi- 
tiveness. 

"Well,  it  ain't  here.  I  left  it  right  where  you're 
a-sittin'  when  I  went  and  got  this  water.  You  ain't 
eat  it,  hev  ye?"  She  was  still  in  her  seat,  her  head 
twisted  about,  her  face  expressing  every  thought 
that  crossed  her  mind. 

"No,  I  ain't  eat  it.  I  ain't  no  goat!"  and  the 
258 


A    POT    OF    JAM 

man  buried  his  face  in  his  paper.  For  him  the 
incident  was  closed. 

Here  there  came  a  still  small  voice  floating  out 
from  the  lips  of  the  Dear  Old  Lady,  slowly,  one 
word  at  a  time: 

"Ain't  you  set  on  it?" 

"Set  on  it!  What!" 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  pulling  her  skirt 
around,  craning  her  neck,  her  face  getting  whiter 
and  whiter  as  the  truth  dawned  upon  her. 

"Oh,  Lordy !  Jes'  look  at  it !  However  did  I  come 
to!  Oh!" 

"Here,  take  my  handkerchief,"  murmured  the 
Dear  Old  Lady.  "Let  me  help  wipe  it  off."  And  she 
laid  down  her  knitting. 

Oh,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  stain !  A  large,  irreg 
ular,  map-like  stain,  with  the  counties  plotted  in 
bits  of  ham  and  the  townships  in  smears  of  bread, 
with  little  rivers  of  butter  running  everywhere. 
One  dear,  beloved  rill  in  an  ectasy  of  delight  had 
skipped  a  fold  and  was  pushing  a  heap  of  butter 
ahead  of  it  down  a  side  plait. 

I  hugged  myself  with  the  joy  of  it  all.  If  it  had 
259 


AT    CLOSE    RANGE 

only  been  a  crock  she  had  sat  in,  with  sandwiches 
enough  to  supply  a  picnic! 

And  the  stain ! 

That  should  have  been  as  large  as  the  State  of 
Rhode  Island ! 


260 


BOOKS   BY 
F.   HOPKINSON   SMITH 


THE   FORTUNES   OF 
OLIVER   HORN 

With  full-page  Illustrations  by  Walter 
Appleton  Clark.     i2mo,  $1.50 

"  It  is  long  since  more  charming  characters  were 
brought  together  in  one  book." 

— New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  It  is  in  the  character-drawing  that  the  author  has 
done  his  best  work.  No  three  finer  examples  of 
women  can  be  found  than  Margaret  Grant,  Sallie  Horn, 
Oliver's  mother,  and  Lavinia  Clendenning,  the  charming 
old  spinster." — Louisville  Courier-journal. 

"  Full  of  warmth  and  life,  while  its  characters  find  a 
place  quickly  in  one's  heart." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  There  will  be  a  general  unanimity,  and  that  is  in 
the  cordiality  with  which  readers  will  recommend  it  to 
their  friends." — New  York  Globe. 

"  Its  charm  does  not  depend  entirely  upon  the  story, 
though  that  is  perhaps  as  entertaining  as  any  Mr.  Smith 
has  ever  spun,  but  resides  in  its  exquisite  presentations 
of  characters  with  whom  it  is  a  joy  to  become  ac 
quainted." — The  Detroit  Free  Press. 


BOOKS    BY   F.    HOPKINSON    SMITH 

THE  UNDER  DOG 

Illustrated.     i2mo,  $1.50 

"There  is,  of  course,  a  certain  tragic  air  in  the  run  of 
them,  but  no  real  gloominess  .  .  .  the  optimism  and 
natural  good  humor  of  the  ingenious  and  versatile  author 
shining  in  the  saddest  and  most  sentimental  pages  of 
the  book." — New  York  Evening  Sun. 

"  Mr.  Hopkinson  Smith's  genius  for  sympathy  finds 
full  expression  in  his  stories  of  human  under  dogs  of  one 
sort  and  another  .  .  .  each  serves  as  a  centre  for  an  epi 
sode,  rapid,  vivid,  story-telling." — The  Nation. 

"  Mr.  Smith  shows  in  the  management  of  the  short 
story,  as  he  has  shown  so  often  before,  the  same  com 
mand  over  his  material  and  his  instruments  which  he 
has  shown  in  his  novels." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  The  touch  is  always  light  and  delicate  but  sure,  and 
the  pictures  presented  seem  very  real." 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

COLONEL  CARTER'S 
CHRISTMAS 

With  eight  illustrations  in  color 
by  F.  C.  Yohn.     i2mo,  $1.50 

"The  story  rings  true." — Brooklyn  Times. 

"  Altogether  the  best  character  ever  created  by  Mr. 
Smith." — Providence  'Journal. 

"  The  dear  old  Colonel  claims  our  smiles  and  our 
love  as  simply  and  as  whole-heartedly  as  ever,  and  we 
thank  the  author  for  another  glimpse  of  him." — Life. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


